


At the end of all things

by Quicksilvermaid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Antiques dealer Draco, Apocalypse, Blood supremacy, Communication, Drug Use, Eldritch, Falling In Love, Friendship, Gore, Grief, Growth, Guilt, Happy Ending, Healing, Horror, Inaccurate Christianity, Loss, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mythology - Freeform, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rebirth, Relationship breakdown, Religion, Riots, Sacrifice, Saving the World, Secret Society, Self-Isolation, Starting Over, Symbolism, Tattooed Harry Potter, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, cursebreaker harry, death of a child, due to character being possessed while someone has sex with them, epic plot, promise!, racial hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 68,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22752580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quicksilvermaid/pseuds/Quicksilvermaid
Summary: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are real and Harry starts dreaming of them.
Relationships: (brief), Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 193
Kudos: 179





	1. The beginning

**Author's Note:**

> After sharing this with friends, the first thing I want to say is please exercise self care when reading this story (particularly ch 1) and please check the tags before starting.
> 
> I'll be writing and posting this as a WIP, and I do hope you'll join me on the journey, but I understand it's not going to be for everyone. 
> 
> This first chapter is the rawest and hardest one (of the whole story, I expect). I'll update any more relevant tags as I go through and will post warnings if I think there is something people need to be particularly aware of. There is a non con scene in chapter 3. If you would like more information on this please contact me on tumblr (quicksilvermaid), or comment on chapter 3 and I will give you more information about its content.
> 
> One of the major themes of this story is the death of Harry's child and the way he responds to that, processes that and lives his life with that. I have children, and while I am lucky enough that nothing has happened to them, I have a few things inside me that I think I need to work my way through with my writing.
> 
> I aim above all to treat this topic, these characters and this story sensitively and respectfully. I want to explore grief and fear and loss and emptiness and how trauma can pile on trauma until it's so hard to remember anything else.
> 
> I want to look at what happens when someone has far too much asked of them again and again and what it takes to say no, knowing others might suffer in place of you.
> 
> I want to look at what it takes to start the journey towards healing and towards living, even when what you had been living for is gone.
> 
> AND I want to see if I can write a story that spans the whole world in its scope and weaves together a tangled web of war, death, destruction, madness and greed. I want to explore just what it takes to save humanity.
> 
> As always, I would love your thoughts, reflections, comments or questions. I very much hope you will join me on this journey.
> 
> XO  
> Q

Harry stood over the empty cot. His eye caught on the movement of the snitches flapping lazily on the blanket Molly had given them when James was born. He swayed gently in place, moving almost unconsciously at the thought of holding James, swaddled in that blanket, rocking back and forth with him, shushing him, singing to him.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head, remembering the feel of his son in his arms, the softness of the downy black hair against his cheek as he breathed in the smell of him, let his lips brush over him.

Harry hummed, a broken, raw sound, a sound that told of screaming and raging and smashing for hours on end. But now, as he stood over his son's empty cot, it was a twisted parody of comfort as he tried to remember.

Those times between dusk and dawn had been his times, in the quiet of the night. His time to tell James stories, to whisper to him of the magic of the world he had been born into, the wonders he would see. With James in his arms and Ginny fast asleep, Harry had spoken softly, almost silently, of the pains as well, the losses. 

He'd found himself slowly, as his baby got heavier week by week, month by month, beginning to pull some of those pieces back together, close some of those long-unhealed wounds. The nightmares eased, ever so slightly. The insomnia turned into occasionally needing to wake to James' cry.

The progress he had made, the tiny steps at last towards getting better seemed laughable, now. Obscene in the face of this.

He put an arm around his middle, pressing against the bare skin of his stomach as he breathed in, imagining the soapy smell of James' hair after he'd had a bath. For a second he could almost feel the weight of his baby in his arms again, feel the clumsy touches of James' fingers against his skin as he poked the tattooed images weaving their way up and down Harry's arms and across his chest. The ghost of that touch and the moment of flaring, heart-stopping relief brought him back to his senses. 

He let out a small cry, forcing himself to stop the rocking movement, the humming comfort. Instead he hunched in on himself, fingers gripping hard around the glass he held in one hand, reaching blindly for the side of the cot with the other. The brutal reminder that it wasn't real—that it would never be real again—twisted through him. He felt flayed with the intensity of it, stripped raw, as though hearing those words again for the first time. 

_Harry, I'm so sorry. It's James. There's been an—Oh Gods, there's been an accident._

Harry let out a sound, half gasp, half sob and wrenched his eyes open, gritting his teeth as he swallowed heavily against the burning in his throat. A keening cry escaped him and he bit down on his cheek until the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth.

He wouldn't cry. He fucking _wouldn't_. He took a drink from the glass in his hand instead, barely tasting the whisky as slid down his throat, washing the blood down with it.

His eyes darted desperately around the room, the room he'd spent days painting by hand, to get every detail perfect. He'd painted symbols for protection, strength, peace and love all through the room, images and talismans from a dozen different countries. He glared at them now, at the ridiculous fucking notion that he could have done something to protect his son, that he could have done anything to protect what was his.

Harry couldn't help the way his eyes returned to the cot, as though drawn there, as though wanting to see James sleeping there, peacefully, to be told it had all been a horrible mistake and his son was back, after all. 

His gaze caught on the small yellow bear, tilted on its side, reaching out as though seeking James as well. Harry had given it to him, had purchased it in a rush, on his way back from a job. He'd almost missed James' birth—the Patronus that Ginny had sent him. She'd begged him not to take a job so close to the due date, but it had been a small curse, a local job, and back then he'd either had to work or sit at home and drink.

He'd seen the bear in a gift shop. It was everything he'd been denied as a child. Love. Companionship. Comfort. His son would have everything he hadn't. He'd been so sure of it. And instead—instead—

Harry felt the churning pit of rage and guilt and disbelief rise in him again, burning through the numbness of the whisky. He took another desperate swallow from his drink, feeling fear clawing at the edges of his mind. He needed the numbness. He could feel the avalanche towering over him, and he knew if it crashed down onto him, he wouldn't survive it.

Harry focussed back on the details in front of him. He wanted to remember, and at the same time he needed to forget. He took another drink, a bitter twist to his lips. Funny that. Just one more way for his life to fuck him over—to hurt him as much as it could. He was Harry Potter, after all. He'd chosen to come back from the dead, to come back for more. He could take it, couldn't he?

This—this hollowness inside him where his child lived... Harry would rather be dead than feel like this.

He looked back at the bear. They'd called it Paddington, Pads for short. It made him think of Sirius, sometimes. He would sit James on his lap and sit Pads in front of them and tell James about the extra grandfather he would have had. Hermione and Ron's crup had eaten Paddington's nose off, giving him a slightly puzzled look. Sometimes Harry imagined it was the same look of surprise Sirius had worn, as he'd stepped backwards, through the veil. 

Harry reached out, fingers hovering just above the stuffed toy. He wanted to pick it up, to right it, straighten the blanket, like he had so many times before, ready for James to be tucked back under it.

He curled his hand into a fist and took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the tears burning at the back of his eyes again. He threw back the glass of whisky he held in his hand, finishing it with two deep gulps, welcoming the burn in his throat instead. It refilled automatically. Ron had brought it for him as a joke gift years before.

 _Joke's on you,_ Harry thought bitterly. Ron hadn't said anything to him yet, anything more than the empty words that everyone had been saying to him, but his eyes had been on Harry for days, watching, waiting. Harry could _hear_ the judgement in his thoughts, the resentment he kept behind his lips.

_Why aren't you looking after Ginny? Look at her. She can't even get out of bed. She hasn't done anything but stare at a wall for days. Why aren't you crying, Harry? WHY WEREN'T YOU THERE?_

Harry looked down into the empty cot and felt the aching loss of his child through every part of his body. 

He'd been here since nightmares had ripped him out of his fitful sleep hours before. The sound of James crying—crying and crying with nobody coming—still echoed in his mind. He'd had this foggy idea that maybe, if he looked hard enough, he could will James' wide brown eyes to be looking back up at him.

It didn't seem real. None of it seemed real. Nothing from the moment he'd rushed back into his house six days earlier, the ricochet of a broken curse still smoking around him, seemed real. Instead it was a nightmare blur of desperate screaming denial, guilt so thick he could choke on it and the feeling like every single part of him that was good had been ripped out of him, killed in the same way James had been.

 _James_.

Harry closed his eyes again, feeling the anguish rise in his throat like vomit. He took a deep, shaking breath. He felt the splash of liquid on his skin and looked down, faintly surprised to see his hand was shaking as well. He looked at the amber liquid, at the false comfort it offered. He looked at the thing that had kept him company through so many of the shittiest parts of the last ten years, and then he lifted his arm, spun and hurled the glass at the wall opposite James' cot.

It smashed, fragments flying everywhere. The base fell to the ground and Harry watched, numbly, as whisky began to flow out, soaking into the thick burgundy carpet he'd chosen for the room.

He didn't know how long it was before the door opened and he heard Ron's curse as he took in the room, and Harry standing in the middle of it. He couldn't stop staring at the carpet, it was sodden now, thick and heavy with the booze, darkened to the colour of blood. It had soaked across the room to him. Harry could feel the wetness of it under his bare feet.

'Harry,' Ron's voice was tired, quiet. 'Harry, what's happened?' Ron bent his head, trying to peer up at Harry's face, through the shaggy hair he hadn't brushed or tied up in days. Harry couldn't take his eyes off the growing puddle on the floor. He imagined it eating through the surface, creating a hole, sucking everything in, him included.

Ron straightened and pulled his wand out, casting _Reparo_ and _Evanesco_ in quick succession, before he siphoned the spill from the carpet.

Harry watched the patch of wetness shrink and then disappear, and wished more than anything that there was a spell to do that with people. He shook himself. Shook off the image that flashed before his eyes for a moment. James on the floor and blood. So much blood. He locked it away far, far inside himself. He couldn't see that again. He couldn't. Instead he lifted his head blinking slowly. He didn't look Ron in the face. Couldn't do that either. Instead he watched Ron's hands. His hands were strong. Freckled. Harry remembered wondering if James would freckle. If he would have Ginny's colouring or Harry's. They'd always been so careful about his sun charms, and now—

'I sent you home last night to sleep, not... _this_ ,' Ron said with a weary gesture at the carpet, the worry in his voice almost hiding the distaste.

'Can't sleep,' Harry muttered, barely aware of the words coming out of his mouth. His voice was raw and croaky. He'd woken up screaming again. 

'They watch me.' He hadn't thought about it until he said it, but as he spoke, the nightmare came flooding back. Four hooded figures facing away from him. Running towards them, desperate, somehow, to find out why they were there. Desperately knowing that if he didn't, something bad would happen.

He remembered them turning, one by one, hoods like empty voids, until the final figure. He wanted the final figure to turn and at the same time he was terrified it would. And then it had. It had turned and James was in its arms, and James was dead.

Harry felt himself begin to shake again, tremors running through his body at the memory. He couldn't—He couldn't think of this.

'Who—' Ron said, before seeming to catch himself with a frown. 'Is this your Death Eaters dream, again? Harry, you need to talk to someone. Especially now. Please. This isn't normal. It's been _years_.' Ron took a step towards him, hands out as though soothing a wild animal.

Harry latched onto the words. 'It's not the Death Eaters. It's the ones that did this. They caused all of it and now they watch me, in my dreams.' A faint part of him, the part that had tried to stay sane all these years, tried to be normal, was aware that his voice had a hint of hysteria to it. He could see the look on Ron's face, but he couldn't shake his certainty. He _knew_ right down inside himself, that someone had taken his baby from him.

'The fuck—,' Ron began, his voice holding an edge of anger. But then he took a deep breath and continued, voice placating, almost like he was speaking to a child. 'We've been over this, Harry. James' death was an _accident_. I can't imagine anything worse ever happening, but no one caused it. It was an accident.' Ron placed a gentle hand on Harry's arm. 'You know this, I know you do.' 

Ron seemed eager to change the subject. He turned and looked back out the door, as though listening. 'Where's Ginny?'

Harry shook his head, trying to get the thoughts straight in his brain. The dreams weren't about the Death Eaters, were they? He couldn't make the fragments of memory connect. Ron sounded so certain. But these ones were different, weren't they? It wasn't Voldemort who turned to him, who took from him again... was it? Something in him shouted that this was important. That he needed to focus on it, but then he looked back at James' cot, at Pads lying there, abandoned, waiting for a child that would never come back to him.

Pads had been through so much and now he was alone again. Harry was alone too. He was always alone.

'Harry,' Ron said, and Harry looked down at Ron's hand as Ron shook his arm gently. 'Where's Ginny?'

Harry forced himself to focus. Ginny. Ginny hadn't spoken to anyone since it happened. Ginny was tears and silence and empty, unseeing eyes. Ginny was—

'Your parents. She stayed there again,' Harry said slowly, voice dull, the memory coming to him as he looked back up at Ron, lifting a shaking hand to push the hair from his face.

Ron blanched as he met Harry's eyes for the first time. Harry had no idea how he looked. He was far beyond caring. All he saw when he looked in the mirror was emptiness.

'You need to get ready for the funeral,' Ron said and Harry felt the word like a blow. He realised for the first time that Ron was wearing his best black robes, the ones he'd married Hermione in. Harry stared at them, like they were a betrayal.

 _Funeral_.

Today was James' funeral. Today they would put him in the ground.

Harry backed away from Ron, shaking his head. He felt terror run through him, like a living thing. He couldn't. James—He felt his back hit the wooden bars of James' cot and he gripped onto them, as though they were the only things holding him up.

James couldn't go in the ground. He needed to be here. In bed. In Harry's arms. He needed to be smiling up with his nonsense sounds and his chubby, gasping hands.

Harry shook his head again, feeling his breathing accelerate as panic filled him. He didn't even notice Ron coming closer until arms were around him and he was pulled against Ron's body.

'I've got you,' Ron said softly. 'We'll do it together.'

Harry shook his head against Ron's chest. 'I can't,' he whispered, voice raw. 'I can't, Ron. I can't. I can't. I can't.'

'You can. He needs you to be strong,' Ron's arms were tight around him, as though trying to hold him together.

'I _can't_ be strong,' Harry said and his voice cracked on the words. 'I need him for that and he's _gone_.' Harry felt the burn of tears in his throat again and this time he couldn't hold them back. He felt the sob rip through him and he fisted his hands in Ron's robes as he felt himself crack open again.

'I can't,' Harry cried, as he lifted his head and thudded it into Ron's chest. His grief poured through him like a river, like it was his blood, spilling from him, draining him of life.

'I know mate,' Ron said softly, in a voice that was wet with tears. 'I know.'

His grief consumed him. It was like a swarm of Grindylows reaching up from the depths with sharp claws and pointed teeth. It dragged him into the darkness and tore him apart. Harry had no idea how long it was before Ron stepped back from him gently, bending his neck to look up into his face. Harry didn't bother wiping his eyes, he just let his head hang down.

'I'm going to get you a sobering potion, and then I'll help you get dressed. We only have about an hour left.'

'No,' Harry whispered, the emptiness inside him rippling with concern. 'Please, don't. The whisky—it numbs things. I can't feel all of this. Not—Not yet. Please, Ron.'

'You can't go to your son's funeral a stinking mess, Harry.' Ron's voice was sympathetic, but firm. 'Have you been properly sober since it happened?'

Harry didn't want to think about that. _Couldn't_ think about the ups and downs he'd ridden to keep his numbness.

He took the potion.

He heaved his guts up over the toilet, but the burn of acid in his throat was nothing compared to the maelstrom that consumed him, bombarded him.

Grief. Anger. Denial. Despair. He cycled through them.

He came up for air when they Apparated into the cemetery at Godric's Hollow and Ron let go of his arm. There was already a crowd and Harry looked around, trying to focus.

He saw a sea of red hair, the extended Weasley family. Hermione rushed towards them, her eyes darting to Ron's and containing some sort of unspoken communication before she fixed on Harry and then embraced him.

Harry stood and let her hold him as he dropped his head to her shoulder. 

'How are you holding up, today?' she asked as she kissed his hair softly.

Harry shook his head slightly. He didn't even know where to start.

'The papers are here,' Hermione said. 'We've got them behind a _Silencio_ and a ward that will keep them far enough back that they won't interrupt.'

Harry straightened at her words, feeling anger surge through him, welcoming it in place of the grief. He gritted his teeth and looked around, spotting the pack of vultures lurking beside some of the older gravestones a hundred yards away.

He took a step towards them, shaking off Hermione's touch. How dare they? How _fucking_ dare they come here, to feed off the misery and loss of his family.

Harry felt his magic spark through him, responding to him sluggishly at first and then more strongly as his fury stirred it into life. He felt it crackle over his skin and he bunched his fists as he took another step towards them. Behind him he heard both Ron and Hermione call out, but he ignored them. Here was something he could do. _Here_ was a way he could help James.

He took another two paces before Molly stepped in front of him.

'Harry, dear,' she said, eyes red from weeping. 'Ginny's this way. She needs you now. Come, love.' Molly's arm was around his waist, her hand rubbing soothingly at his side as she steered him towards the group of people.

Harry felt his anger waver in the face of the certainty in Molly's voice. He'd spent the last ten years fucking his life up in one way or another, but every time, Molly's certainty had been something he could fall back on. He let her lead him away, the guilt rising again to drown his anger. He didn't deserve her. He didn't deserve anyone. He couldn't even keep her grandson alive.

People reached out to him as he passed through the crowd, offering comforting touches, or comforting words. Harry couldn't see or hear them. His feet followed a familiar path, one he'd travelled a hundred times before to be with the rest of his family. His parents. The placeholder for Sirius, who would never return to him.

As they got closer to the focus of the group, all he could see was the tiny mound of dirt, covered by a green cloth, made to look like grass. The idea was absurd, that this hole in the ground could be anything natural. Could be anything but the most obscene travesty.

Molly put pressure on him, steering him slightly until he was looking at Ginny instead, draped in black dress robes and standing beside the grave. She looked like a corpse. Her face was pale and still. She stared at the hole in the ground in front of her as though it contained the embodiment of the same horrifying truth that Harry had spent the last six days escaping.

He wanted to be anywhere but here. He couldn't do this. He couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't. He could feel his heart start to race and his breath come faster and suddenly, desperately, he needed a drink. His hands started to shake and he shoved them into the pockets of his robes, glad, for just a second, that they hid the way the shaking spread through his body.

Molly gave him a soft push on the back and he took a step forward, stepping up beside Ginny, leaning towards her. She didn't blink; didn't show any acknowledgement of his presence.

'Hey, Gin,' he said, voice hoarse. She didn't respond to his words. Didn't look up from her intense staring at the hole in front of them. Harry wondered, as he watched her, whether she imagined as well that if she stared hard enough, she could will James back to life. 

He didn't try to talk to her again. He stood beside her instead and they stared into the hole together.

There was a service. Words were said. People moved back and forth in the crowd, speaking and holding each other.

Harry didn't hear the words that were said. Couldn't see anything but the small coffin, its wood shining brightly in the sun as it sat on red sashes, suspended above the hole. Ron had helped him carry it over. James had been in Mungo's, he knew. They'd wanted to keep him, to test him and check him and find out just why it had happened, _how_ it had happened.

Harry had had nightmares about that too, about James. Alone and cold and so, so scared. And now he was here, in this box, instead. Ron had helped him carry it. They wanted to float it with magic, but some things should be done by hand. Feeling the weight of your son's coffin in your arms felt like one of them.

He looked up again when Hermione stepped front of him, obscuring his view of his son's new bed. Her eyes were red and puffy and her cheeks glistened with tears.

'Do you want to speak now?' she asked softly, and Harry looked past her, eyes moving slowly from face to face as he realised everyone was watching them, had eyes fixed on either Ginny or himself.

He stood there; mind blank. He'd never liked crowds. Never liked speeches. They'd tried to make him do so many, after the war. They stopped asking him after a while, after he started turning up drunk or high, when he bothered to turn up at all.

Now he took two slow, heavy steps until he stood at the foot of the grave, looking down at the tiny, wooden box.

He took a breath, trying to gather his thoughts. Trying to think of how he could honour James. Memorialise him. Explain him.

A slow tinkle of music entered his mind, wavering at the edges of his hearing. He couldn't place it for a moment, and then he realised it was the slow, metallic sound of the music from the mobile that hung above James' change table. A broom chased a snitch and an owl 'round and 'round.

Harry could hear the love in his own voice as he sung down to James in time with it.

_Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop_

He would rock James back and forth in his arms.

_When the wind blows, the cradle will rock_

James would smile up at him, reaching for his hair or his beard.

_When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall_

Harry would let his arms drop, catching James a second later and sending him laughing with delight at the movement.

_And down will come baby, cradle and all_

He would lift James up to his face for a kiss. James' hands would twist in his hair and Harry would just look at him. Just look and look and look as though his heart would burst.

'I can't do this,' Harry blurted out, turning away from the grave. He pushed back through the crowd, shaking off Ron's hand as he reached roughly for him, and then others, pushing them away blindly. He had to get away. He had to get out. He couldn't watch them put his son in the ground. It would be real then. It would be real if that happened.

A hand grabbed his arm and refused to be shrugged off. There were words, but he couldn't make them out, couldn't see or hear anything. And then someone shook his arm and everything around him snapped into razor-sharp focus.

'Harry,' said the voice of the person holding his arm. 'Harry, you need to breathe. Please, can you breathe with me?'

Harry looked up into slate grey eyes and felt his panic and anguish crystallise back into rage.

'What the fuck are you doing here?' he spat, fury rising in him. He wrenched his arm out of Malfoy's grip. 'You have no _fucking right_.'

Malfoy took a step back, hands raised as if that somehow meant he was defenceless. 'I'm sorry,' he said, voice soft. 'I just wanted to pay my respects.'

Harry let his anger rise in him. Embraced it. Anger was so, so much better than the grief and the guilt. Anger took him away from that hole in the ground. Anger made him feel full of something, if only for a moment.

'Get out,' he growled. 'Get _the fuck_ out.' He dropped his hand to his side, feeling for his wand, before he realised he hadn't seen it in days. Malfoy tracked the gesture then looked back up at Harry.

'I'm so sorry about your son,' he said. 'I know you don't want to see me, but I need to tell you someth—'

'You have no idea what sorry is,' Harry hissed, rage continuing to build in him. ' _Your_ damned son is still alive.' Malfoy would get to watch his son grow. Malfoy would get every. Single. Fucking. Thing Harry had lost.

Malfoy's face twisted at the mention of his own child, and his fingers twitched for a moment into a fist as well. Harry felt satisfaction rise in him at the gesture. Suddenly he wanted nothing more— _nothing more_ —than to sink his fists into Malfoy's body, to punch and kick and bite until he was covered in his own blood and the pain on his body matched the pain in his heart.

He took a step forward, clenched fist rising, but was stopped by a hand on his arm and an urgent voice in his ear.

'Harry, please. Don't do this.'

'What is he doing here?' Harry asked flatly, not looking at Hermione, as she tightened her grip on his arm.

'He's showing his respects, Harry,' Hermione said urgently. 'The wards let all family and friends through.'

Harry turned his head to look at her, incredulity warring with his fury. 'We're not friends, and he's certainly not fucking family.'

'We were friends, once,' Malfoy said and Harry laughed bitterly, turning back to him.

'We were never friends,' he said, voice cold and hard. 'We fucked years ago. And then you left. And this is my damned son's funeral so I need you to leave again, right the fuck now.'

'Harry—' Malfoy started again.

'Your kid's alive,' Harry said, feeling the pain spiral back into his body. He would give anything to be able to say that himself. He could hear it in his own voice. The grief. The desperation. 'What more do you fucking want?'

'Harry, I've been having dreams,' Malfoy said, speaking quickly now, as though desperate to get the words out before he was stopped. 'There's a man with a hood. He has your face.'

Harry felt the words spear through him. He remembered his own dreams, a hooded man holding his son's body. He knew what it meant. He had always known what it meant. He had killed James. It was all his fault that James was dead. And now Malfoy knew too.

'I think it has something to do with your son's death,' Malfoy started, and Harry had had enough.

He took two quick steps forward, balled his fist and drove it into Malfoy's face. He felt the sickening crunch of bone as Malfoy's nose broke and blood began to flood down his face. He ignored Malfoy's shout of pain and the way his hands rose to protect his face, and stepped in closer, driving a short, hard punch into Malfoy's guts, which had him bending over and retching for air.

Harry raised his knee to slam it into Malfoy's body, when he was pulled roughly back. He didn't bother to see who had grabbed him, just wrenched his body against their hold. 

'Fight back,' he yelled at Malfoy. He had his arms wrapped around his stomach and straightening slowly. 'Fight back, you bastard.' Harry heard his voice crack on the last word.

Malfoy looked at him with something like sadness in his eyes, blood dripping down his face. Then he turned on the spot, Disapparating with a crack that echoed around the quiet graveyard.

The pressure on Harry's right arm eased and Ron stepped up beside him.

'James deserves better than this, mate,' he said, grief and disappointment in his voice.

'James deserves to be _ALIVE_ ,' Harry returned, his voice rising until he was shouting it in Ron's face. 

In the distance he could see the reporters, quills waving madly, cameras flashing. He gave them the finger and turned back to Ron, shoulders slumping as the last of the anger left him suddenly, leaving only the empty hole where James should live.

'I can't do this. Take me home.'  
  
~

Harry's house was a tomb. He spent as little time inside it as he could. James had been gone for thirty-five days but Harry still saw him in every room. He and Ginny hadn't talked about what to do with his things. His highchair was still pulled up to the table. The colourful mat they'd laid over the floor in the living room, during his spewy crawling phase hit Harry like a punch in the guts every time he walked into the room.

He hadn't been able to bring himself to go back into James' room since the morning of the funeral. Instead he'd spent as much time as he could out of the house. Away from the stream of visitors and home-cooked meals, the constant questions, the well-meaning concern that felt like fire across his skin. Like guilt so thick he could drown in it.

_You need to talk to someone._

_We're worried about you._

_You're_ still _having those dreams?_

 _This obsession isn't healthy, Harry. What happened was horrific. But you need to accept it was an_ accident.

Harry pulled his motorcycle up in front of Grimmauld Place and kicked the stand down, stepping off it and Disillusioning it with a quick charm. He reached inside the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out his smokes, lighting one up and taking a deep breath in. He closed his eyes for a moment, blowing the smoke out, as he prepared to walk back inside. Prepared for the flood of memories that he managed, for a few minutes at a time, to bury while he was working.

Talking jobs had been the only thing stopping him from drinking himself right into a box alongside James, he knew. At least when he was studying a curse, trying to figure out the best way to rip it apart before it got him first, he could make his brain stop, just for a second. And maybe, yes, he was taking more risks than he had in recent years. Maybe he was acting a little like he had back before he and Ginny had hooked up again. Before they'd found out about James. But so what. He was trying. He was doing the best he fucking could.

He stepped inside the door and kicked off his heavy boots in the entry, hanging his rucksack on a hook above them. He made for the kitchen. He needed a drink. Ginny was sitting at the kitchen table when he walked in. She was in her dressing gown, a cup of tea in her hands that looked like it had gone cold hours before.

At the sound of his entrance she looked up

'I told you to stop smoking those filthy things,' she snapped, a hint of fire coming back into her eyes for just a second.  
  
Harry took a deep drag and blew the smoke out.

'What's the point? James is gone. They can't hurt him anymore.' His voice was sharp. He knew it was. But he couldn't make it soft. He felt like everything soft inside him was lying in a hole in the ground.

Ginny flinched, like his words were blows and her eyes dropped back to her cup of tea. Harry could see her shoulders shake as her tears began to flow again.

'I'm sorry,' he said, laying a hand on her shoulder as he passed her. His touch was brief, but he felt her lean away from it, all the same. He grabbed the whisky bottle off the shelf and left the kitchen.

~

The next time he was home, Ron was too. He was already in the kitchen when Harry walked in, his whole body aching from the effects of a blood curse that had begun worming its way under his skin before he'd been able to rip it out of himself. He fucking hated blood curses. They were nasty, insidious, creeping things, unless you forced them into accelerated attack. That was the only way to stop them. Get them before they got you.

Ron's face softened when Harry walked in, but it wasn't a smile that crossed it. He was standing at the table cutting carrots and Harry could smell the stew bubbling on the stove behind him. His stomach gave a loud growl at the sound, reminding him that he'd barely eaten lately.

'Hey,' he said, making a beeline for the liquor cabinet and pouring himself a glass of scotch. Gods but he was tired. He tilted the bottle at Ron, but he shook his head and kept cutting.

'Where's Ginny?' Harry asked.

Ron frowned at him and set the knife down, leaning on the table. 'You don't know?'

Harry shrugged, the prickle of guilt he felt at this was nothing compared to the ocean he swam in every day. 'I haven't been home for a few days. Big job.'

'She's checked herself into Mungo's for a bit. She's been using sleeping potions.' Ron's frown deepened as he spoke. 'She's been seeing things. Did you know that?'

Harry took a sip of his drink and thought about that. 'I thought some of my Dreamless was missing,' he said. Ron's look morphed into something angry.

'Are you for real?' He took a step away from the table, so that he was facing Harry. Harry pulled his smokes out and lit one up, drawing the tang of it into his lungs.

'She's in the fucking hospital because she thinks she's going round the twist and she's finally asking for help, and all you can say is, "oh, the potions I abuse on the regular as well are getting low"?' Ron's eyes narrowed in anger.

Harry shrugged. A part of him knew he was being a prick. That part of him that didn't want to see Ron or Ginny or anyone hurting... That part of him felt very small and very far away.

'Enough's enough, Harry. We're all devastated about James' death,' Ron paused to take a breath, pain flashing across his face. 'And none of us can ever understand how you and Ginny feel, but this—the way you're acting. I'm sick of walking on eggshells around you, when I can manage to catch you at all. You need help.'

Harry watched him, taking a large swallow of his scotch and another drag on his smoke before he spoke.

'Are you done?'

Ron's anger changed to shock and he opened his mouth, but Harry spoke over him.

'You're right. You have no idea how I feel. You, Hermione, Molly, even Ginny. None of you know how I feel. He was—' Harry took a deep breath before he continued, his voice more subdued. 'James was everything to me. I'm not going to go back to my life like it was before him. I _can't_.'

Ron's face seemed to soften with these words. 'No one's saying you have to pretend he never existed and suddenly become happy. We're just saying that all this working. All this drinking. It's not healthy. You're never home. Ginny needs you. We all need you.'

Harry let the words wash over him. All his life, people had needed him. The one who'd needed him most of all, was dead because of him.

'James needs me,' was all he said in response. He didn't realise, until the words came out, just how they sounded.

Ron took another step forward, the look on his face hesitant. 'What do you mean James needs you?' he asked softly. 'James is gone, mate.'

Harry shook his head, angry at himself. He shouldn't have said that. He hadn't slept more than an hour or two in a row for days now and it was messing with his thinking. It was why the curse had managed to touch him today. He was usually so much more careful.

'I need to find out what happened to him,' he said instead.

Ron's hesitancy didn't fade, if anything he began to look worried. 'We know what happened, Harry. Remember, they sent it all in a big letter. It was an accident. The was a gap in the wards and the window was left open. The monitoring charm wasn't set. The Erkling coming in was just an awful, awful accident.'

Harry grimaced at the creature's name, remembering bite marks and so, so much blood. He shook his head again, trying to shake the image out of it. 'I don't know why I have to keep telling you all this. There was no gap in the wards. I do this shit for a living. I ward my own life every day. You think I would ever leave a gap that could put my baby in danger?'

Ron's eyes flicked for a second to Harry's arms and he realised that the marks from the blood curse were a vivid red on his skin, like the touches of devilish fingers. They stood out even over the hieroglyphs and prayer wards and the phoenix spiralling in vivid blues and greens up his rolled-up sleeve. He could feel Ron's questioning look like an accusation. It joined the voice inside him that whispered to him constantly that this _was_ his fault, that if he had just stayed instead of taking the job that night, nothing would have happened. That if he had triple checked everything, James would still be alive.

'I didn't do it,' Harry said, speaking through the guilt that rose in his throat like bile. 'I checked the wards before I went out that night. I checked his room. I set the charm. _Like I always do_.'

Ron raised his hands placatingly. 'No one is trying to blame you, Harry. It's just that sometimes the things we've done a million times before... sometimes our brains play tricks on us, lay a memory of a different time over the real memories.'

'The shrink at Janus Thickey tell you that, did they?' Harry sneered, not willing to accept it. James' death couldn't be his fault. It couldn't. Someone else had caused this. He knew they had.

'Yes,' Ron said simply. 'I've been seeing someone for weeks now. It helps, to be able to talk things through with someone.'

'That's lovely,' Harry said, putting his drink down on the bench beside himself harder than necessary. He sucked down the last of his smoke and dropped it in the dregs of the liquid. 'I'm glad you're getting help. Really, I am. But I'm fine, and I'm not interested in someone telling me what is or isn't real, so I'll give it a pass.'

Ron crossed his arms and Harry recognised the moment he put his Auror face on. 'Harry, you have to drop this. You can't keep chasing ghosts. I know you're researching when you're not working. I saw the papers spread all over Sirius' old room. James' death was an accident and you driving yourself mad over it isn't going to help anyone.'

'You're spying on me now?' Harry asked, incredulous. He took a step forward, moving into Ron's space. 'You're coming into my fucking house and poking around without me here?'

Ron's mouth tightened, but he didn't deny it. 'I'm worried about you. We all are. Those pictures you've sketched, of hooded figures, they're Death Eaters. Your old nightmares are getting mixed up in this new obsession. James' death was an accident and you need help to start to understand and accept that.'

'You haven't got a fucking clue what I need,' Harry growled, stepping closer until they were almost chest to chest. Ron might have a few inches on him, but Harry had a lean, wiry strength, and he was used to fighting far, far dirtier. He had no doubt he could take Ron if it came to that.

But Ron sighed and stepped back. 'I didn't mean to upset you. Just have a think about what I said. Please.'

'Get out,' Harry said in response. 

Ron opened his mouth as though he wanted to argue, but then he turned and stepped towards the Floo. His eyes were sad as he looked over his shoulder at Harry before he disappeared.

Harry pulled his wand from his pocket and sent the pot of soup smashing into the fireplace after his departing form.

~

Ginny was home again when he got back a few days later, after dealing with a collection of cursed clothing. Evidently a young woman had inherited her grandmother's estate. No one had told her that her grandfather had a chauvinistic, jealous streak. The nightdress she'd worn while fucking her boyfriend had strangled her to death, mid act.

Harry had destroyed the lot of it, but containing the explosion of magic each time he released a curse in order for the item to be Incendioed had taken its toll on him. He'd ridden his bike back afterwards, and the flight over the ocean had sapped the last of his energy. He felt like every step was an effort he didn't have in him.

He'd been in Dublin when he got the owl about Ginny coming back. That had been two days ago. He'd wondered how she was. He hoped she was healing. One of them, at least, should be able to move on from this one day.

When he walked into the kitchen she wasn't there, but he knew she was in the house. It didn't have that same empty, neglected feeling it normally did. He was about to pour himself a drink when he heard it. Faint music coming from upstairs, the tinkling, slightly metallic tone of the baby mobile, rotating round and round.

_Down will come baby, cradle and all._

He turned on his heel and ran for the stairs, thumping his way up them, his earlier exhaustion forgotten. He could hear Ginny's voice now too, soft and sweet and he felt his heart thump inside his chest, aching with a desperate pain. 

He reached the landing and pushed open the door to James' room, left part-way ajar. Ginny turned to look up at him, stopping her singing as she cuddled James' blanket to herself, breathing in the scent of it.

At the sight of her empty arms, at the sight of the still empty room, Harry felt something, some desperate hope inside himself break apart. He felt his knees buckle and put a hand out to grip the wall and stop himself from falling.

'I—I thought,' he began brokenly, unable to make his confused thoughts connect.

'I'm looking through his things,' Ginny said. 'They said it would help, to touch things that were his, to remember him instead of hiding from him.'

She folded up the blanket and laid it at the end of the cot, before picking Pads up and placing him neatly on top of it.

'Don't—' Harry started, moving into the room before he knew what he was doing. _Leave it_ , he wanted to say. _It was like that when he left. It needs to be like that when he comes back_.

'Do you want to hold it?' Ginny asked. Her voice was quiet and had an empty tone to it that he'd never heard on her before, but this was more words than she'd spoken to him in weeks.

Harry shook his head. The thought of smelling James on the blanket, of feeling the familiar softness of it, without the weight of James in his arms...

'Are you okay?' he asked instead.

Ginny just looked at him, tilting her head to one side. 'No. Are you?'

~

It was another week before it came to a head. A week of Ginny's strange calmness and continual touching of all of James' things. She came in and out, for Mind Healer visits, Harry assumed, though she never wanted to talk about them. There was a line of jars on their bathroom sink, each one printed with Ginny's name in the neat script of the Mungo's quills.

He tried to stay around the house, tried to keep Ron's words in mind. He and Ginny talked about small things. _Did you get the milk? Did you write back to that letter from Luna? Did you want to keep this plate sitting on the bench for ever or were you going to fucking wash it some time?_

Harry was sitting in Sirius' room when Ginny came back from wherever she disappeared to. He normally made sure the wards alerted him to her presence so he could leave the room and lock it up before she got upstairs. After Ron, he didn't want anyone else seeing what he was working on.

He had a thick book called _Dark and Dangerous Creatures: Control and Regulation_ open on his lap and another two beside him, which he was cross referencing. Erklings weren't even native to England. Everyone seemed totally fine with one crawling in the window of his house, but the fact that it shouldn't have was the only thing Harry had at the moment. That and the fucking dreams of hooded men. It was getting so that he couldn't even close his eyes without seeing them, as though they were waiting for him.

Ginny walked in the door and stopped dead, looking around with eyes that widened as she took in the sketches, pages torn from books, scribbles of notes and theories. They were tacked to the walls and spread over the floor and bed he was sitting on.

'What is this?' she asked in a voice that was deceptively calm.

'It's nothing,' Harry said, standing and closing the book he'd been reading. He put it down on the other two and stepped over the papers towards Ginny, planning to shepherd her back out the door and close it behind her.

'That's a picture of the thing that killed him,' she said, indicating with her chin an image of an Erkling on the wall behind him. It was a pointy, vicious creature, all sharp claws and teeth. Harry had nightmares sometimes, about those feral yellow eyes being the last thing James had ever seen.

'It's just research,' he said gruffly. 'For a curse.' He stepped forward, nudging her with his body. As he did so, he realised it was the first time he'd touched her in weeks. They lay in bed alongside each other now, not talking or touching, lying awake and staring into the darkness.

'It's not research,' Ginny said, trying to peer around him as he pulled the door closed behind himself. 'You're still looking into his death, aren't you?' Her voice rose slightly with those words, as though she couldn't believe what she was saying.

Harry set his jaw. 'It wasn't an accident.'

Ginny shook her head at him, pain coming into her eyes. 'Why do you have to do this to yourself? Can't you just let him rest?'

'I'm not doing anything to myself,' Harry said, anger stirring in him. 'I know something is wrong with all of this. That thing shouldn't have been able to get inside. Someone must have let it in.'

Ginny just stared at him. 'Are you listening to yourself? Someone? Like who? _Why?_ There was no conspiracy, Harry. Nothing let that creature into our house.' She gestured angrily at the walls as she continued to speak.

'You forgot to set the wards properly. It could have happened to anyone.' Her voice thickened with those last words, as though she didn't believe them as she said them.

Harry shook his head. 'I didn't set them wrong. I would never set them wrong. And even if I had, I should have felt that thing come through them. I should have been able to Apparate straight—'  
  
'YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE,' Ginny yelled, as though the words had been boiling inside her, desperate for escape. The moment they left her mouth she stopped and they stared at each other.

'What did you say?' Harry asked, his voice a whisper.

'I—I didn't mean it,' Ginny said after a long pause. 'It wasn't your fault. I know that.'

Harry took a step back from her, so his back was hard against the door to the room he'd just exited.

'Yes, you did,' he said. 

Ginny was silent, her mouth set. Tears began to shimmer in her eyes.

Harry could felt her condemnation like a blade through his gut. It sat directly alongside the one he'd stabbed into himself when he'd realised what had happened. Had realised that if he had just _been here_ , his son would still be alive.

'I have to go,' he said, the words leaving his mouth without conscious thought.

'Where?' Ginny asked, making no move to stop him.

'Germany,' Harry said, as pieces clicked to place in his mind. 'The Erklings are native to Germany. I need to know what one was doing here.'

'You don't have to go,' Ginny said.

A part of Harry wanted to reach out, to pull her into his arms, to tell her it would all be okay, somehow. That he'd fucked things up, but he'd fix them. He always fixed them.

'Yes, I do,' he said, and he opened the door behind himself again.

He worked quickly, now that he had decided to do it. It was almost like he'd been waiting for this moment for weeks, building to it. He stripped the papers from the wall, bundled the books into a pile, rolled up the notes and maps. He heard Ginny go back downstairs, but didn't stop what he was doing. It wasn't until his eye caught on a note, scribbled with red ink and a question mark that he paused for a moment. It was weeks old, shoved underneath a pile of other thoughts, lost in the rest of his hunt.

There were only four words on it, but reading them set something on fire in his mind. 

_Malfoy. Hooded figure. Connection?_

How had he not looked this up before? He'd been so focussed on tracking down the creature that he'd forgotten the random connection that Malfoy had made, that day at Godric's Hollow.

He shrunk the pile of papers and books down and then pointed his wand downstairs. 'Accio Mokeskin Pouch.' It came flying into his hand and he opened the neck of it, sliding his research inside. He kept a range of things in it, things he'd collected on his travels; charms, amulets, wards. Trinkets some of them, all holding a memory of something different. Something better. He hadn't added anything to the bag since James was born. Hadn't been outside the country since James was born.

The thought made him frown and he glanced around the room, checking to make sure he had everything. His next stop was his room, where he gathered the few changes of clothes he took on every trip. His invisibility cloak. The more extensive potions kit he took for long range field first aid.

He paused at the door to James' room, feeling something in him shrink at the thought of going inside again, but this was important. He was leaving. He knew what he needed to do.

He went inside and shifted the bundle of clothes into one arm before he picked Pads up, holding him just under his chin for a moment. The smell of him, and the cuddly warmth tucked against his body sent pain and grief ripping through Harry. He swallowed against it, burying his face in the bear's fur. He took one, deep, steadying breath, and then another. Then he pulled the bear away from his face and tucked it into the Mokeskin Pouch as well, resolutely not looking down into his confused, scrunched up face.

He went down the final flight of stairs to grab his rucksack, hanging in the entry hall. He stuffed his clothes into it, leaving it sitting next to his boots and then went back through the house. He passed the kitchen on his way, and saw Ginny sitting at the table. She glanced up and watched him as he passed, but didn't say anything. He didn't slow.

His last stop was the living room. He knew what he wanted from here. He crossed to the mantlepiece and picked up a photo of James. It had been taken a few months earlier. Harry held it and watched as James cackled in laughter, almost tipping himself off the side of the couch. A moment later Harry's head appeared, as he took off the invisibility cloak. James was obscured for a moment and then Harry disappeared again and James returned. His face was startled, before he burst back into happy laughter.

Harry had been avoiding the photos. It was hard enough seeing James' face in his mind's eye, without seeing every perfect detail of him. He looked away, searching for something to put the image in, as he flipped the frame over and peeled the back off. He spotted a copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ sitting on a side table, where Ginny had left it almost two months before. She'd liked to read to James, Harry remembered, but the memory felt old somehow. Faded.

He crossed the room and picked the book up. He slipped the photo between the pages and then put it into his pouch as well before tying it onto his belt. He wondered what it said of him that he could pack his entire life up in less than ten minutes. He didn't think it was anything good. It probably also wasn't anything he didn't already know about himself.

His steps slowed as he walked back out of the living room. He stopped in the kitchen doorway. Ginny was still watching him.

'I'm sorry,' he said, knowing it said everything and nothing all at once.

'Will you be back?' she asked.

Harry realised as she asked that he didn't know. He hadn't thought about it. James had tied him down. James had tethered him here, given him a reason to return every night.

'I don't know,' he said simply.

'Be safe,' she said, seeming to accept those words. Harry realised she'd heard them from him often enough. They'd been in and out of each other's lives for years. The last eighteen months had been the most time in a row they'd ever spent together.

'You too,' he said, and he knew that he meant it. Ginny didn't deserve any of this. Ginny shouldn't be the one to lose everyone over and over again. That was his job, after all. It was why he was made.

~

He rode at first without conscious thought. He just let himself feel the simple pleasure of the wind flipping strands of his hair behind him and the roar of his bike between his legs. Eventually, though, he found himself steering west. It wasn't until he saw the sign reading 'Welcome to Wiltshire' that he realised where he was going.

He had to stop in Amesbury and ask directions to the big poncy Manor around these parts. Lucky it wasn't too late at night. He considered having a drink while he was there but something in him was itching to keep moving, to follow up this lead while it was fresh in his mind again. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten Malfoy's words. He could have been weeks ahead in trying to figure out what the hell was going on. He felt anger stirring at himself and tried to push it back down. That wasn't going to help him now.

By the time he pulled up out the front of Malfoy Manor, Harry was tired and cold, and thinking that perhaps pushing on through the night had been a bad idea. Malfoy was hardly likely to invite him in for a chat this close to midnight, was he? But he was here now, so he may as well make the best of it.

He kicked his stand down and disillusioned his bike with a wave of his wand. He set repellent charms and a nasty hex over the saddlebags on the back of his bike which held all of his things and then moved towards the gates.

He assumed he wouldn't get anywhere near them and would need to wait for Malfoy to be alerted by the wards and to come and let him in, but to his surprise, they swung open silently at his approach.

Harry frowned and lit his wand before he began the long walk down the driveway. His boots crunched in the gravel underfoot, but everything else around him was silent. He could see the Manor in the distance and a number of lights were on, the dull hint of them peeking around the edges of curtains and shutters. Harry frowned, wondering why the place was lit up so late at night and quickened his footsteps.

He moved into a jog as he got close enough to see the Auror stationed at the front door. The man drew his wand and called out a challenge. Harry forced himself to slow. He tucked his wand into his jacket and stepped into the light with his hands raised. He recognised the Auror, Jeffries. He was in Ron's team. It seemed Jeffries recognised him as well, because his stance relaxed and he lowered his wand slightly. 

'Harry,' he said, voice more official than Harry was used to hearing. 'What are you doing here?'

Harry tried to look past him to see inside the building. He glanced up again to see the number of lights that were on. What the hell was happening in there? He considered his options quickly. He could say he was visiting Malfoy as a friend, but if Aurors were present, maybe he was caught up in something shady.

'I need to see Ron,' he said instead, hoping like hell Ron was actually rostered on tonight. It seemed he was because Jeffries hesitated. 

'It's important,' Harry said. 'Hermione sent me.'

At that Jeffries looked even more torn. 'I can't let you in,' he said. 'It's an active crime scene.'

The words crime scene ripped through Harry's mind, dread following them. He had to get inside. He needed to know what Malfoy knew.

'I'll just be a second,' he promised, moving past Jeffries with confidence. 'I remember all the protocols from training. I won't contaminate any evidence. Promise.' Jeffries opened his mouth one more time and Harry touched his wand, sending a non-verbal Confundus his way. He hated spelling people, but he needed to know what the hell was happening. Right now.

The sight that met his eyes when he stepped through the double doors made him stop in shock. Blood was sprayed up the column of the white marble staircase in the entrance hall. It was bright and obscene against the smooth surface. At the base of the stairs was a body covered with a sheet. He could see the blood seeping out from under it.  


He stepped closer, a sick fear gripping him. He could feel his breathing coming faster and his heart begin to pound. He smelt an acrid smell, sharp like sulphur. It stung his nose, burned his throat. Images flashed into his mind. Blood in the carpet. Blood everywhere. A tiny hand.

He stepped closer again, forcing himself to move. Forcing himself to breathe. He had to know. Blood. Blood. Blood. So much blood. Harry's heartbeat was pounding in his ears now. It was all he could hear. He took another step and then another, feeling like he was moving through treacle, like every step took more energy than he possessed.

When he reached the sheet, he knelt and took a deep breath. He tried to breathe through the panic that was rising him. So much blood on the outside and he couldn't put it back on the inside. Sticky beneath his knees, soaking into his trousers, covering his hands.

He looked down and his hands were clean. He shook his head, trying to focus.

Harry gripped the corner of the sheet and lifted it, just enough to see that the figure under the sheet had long, dark hair. It was a woman.

He dropped the sheet again and leaned to one side, away from the body laid out before him. He put both hands on the ground and vomited, retching as all that came up was bile and pain.

He could feel himself begin to shake, giant tremors rocking through him. He tried to breathe through them but he couldn't catch his breath. Couldn't think.

Ron found him like that. He wasn't sure how much later. He heard his name, then swearing, then Ron's hands on him, pulling him up and outside. Guiding him into the cool night air.

It was a long time before his breathing went back to normal and he could hear above the pounding of his heart.

'What the hell are you doing here?' Ron asked, when Harry turned to look at him, wiping sweaty hair off his forehead.

'I needed to see Malfoy,' he said, not sure what else to say. 'What happened in there? Who was that?'

Ron's mouth twisted in disgust and anger. 'That was one of fifteen human and house elf staff. They're dead, the lot of them, spread all over the house. It's a bloodbath in there.'

Harry stared at him, unable to take it in. 'Where's Malfoy?' Then another thought hit him, something far worse. 'He has a son, a little boy.' He almost couldn't bring himself to ask. The image of the blood was back in his mind. So much blood. 'He wasn't in there, was he?'

'What are you doing here?' Ron asked again, as he shook his head in answer to Harry's question. 'It's the middle of the night.' He looked Harry up and down. 'Did you ride here? The last time you saw Malfoy you tried to kill him. What the fuck are you doing here?'

Harry ignored his questions. They didn't matter. 'I need to find Malfoy,' he said instead. 'Now. It's important.'

Ron gave a bitter laugh. 'That's great mate. After we've tracked him down and charged him for fifteen murders, I'll be sure to tell him it's important that you speak with him.'

Harry stared at him, not comprehending. His thoughts still felt slow, like they wouldn't connect.

'Are you trying to say he did this?' he asked, looking back at the house. He shook his head. Malfoy might be a bastard, but he wasn't a murderer. Or he hadn't been, seven years ago when they'd exploded in each other's faces.

'I _know_ he did this,' Ron said grimly. 'We have his magical signature on file from his trial. It matches every single one of the deaths.'

'It can't,' Harry said, stupidly. He thought of the dream, the hooded figures. His chance to find out what Malfoy knew. His chance to find out what happened to James.

'It does,' Ron said, and there was a grim finality in his voice.

'I have to go,' Harry said, backing away.

Ron stepped forward with a frown, reaching out for him and Harry moved faster. 'Not until you tell me why you're here,' he said. 'This is serious Harry. I've never seen anything this bad. Have you been talking to Malfoy? Do you know where he went?'

Harry shook his head, raising his hands. 'I don't know anything about him. I just came to ask him about something he said—something he said at the funeral.'

Ron winced for a moment, but he didn't let up on his stern expression. 'I still need to ask you some questions.'

Harry debated running, but there was a whole team of Aurors in the house.

'Tomorrow?' he asked instead. 'I'll come into the Ministry first thing? I should get home now though. Ginny won't want to find me gone when she wakes.'

Ron relaxed at his words and nodded. 'Tomorrow is fine. Try and get some rest. You look like shit.'

Harry forced a wry smile onto his face. 'I'm trying,' he said softly.

Ron gave him a half smile. 'I know,' he said in return. 'I'll see you in the morning, okay?'

Harry nodded and headed for the gates.

Once he was back on his bike, he wheeled it around and turned it east. He had to be across the borders and in France before morning. By the time Ron realised he was gone and managed to get in touch with the French Ministry, he'd be half way to Germany.

He revved the engine before kicking the lever to send it flying into the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. 
> 
> I would really love to know what you thought and where you think things might be going.
> 
> The next chapter is planned but not written. I will be posting sporadically so if you'd like to keep track of the story, please subscribe.
> 
> Q


	2. Conquest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well done me, starting an Apocalypse fic in the middle of what feels like an actual Apocalypse. I hope, wherever you are, that you and your loved ones are safe and well.
> 
> This ch was somewhat diverted by the arrival of said Apocalypse, but I'm very pleased to be bringing it to you now. I've added a tag for drug use, but all other tags stand.
> 
> I need to say a million thanks to my amazing support team (old and new) for this one:  
> Tackytiger, who read this three (3!) times and gave me so much encouragement and support, despite having her own stuff going on.  
> Theonsfavouritetoy, who gave me the inspo for one of the significant characters and significant sites in this ch and then enjoyed very much what I did with it.  
> Alpha-exodus who asked 'Why the fuck is Harry in Prague?'  
> Baatneil who asked a million other questions and led to you all getting another 5K of content and me getting a much, much stronger chapter  
> Malenkayacherpakha and Static_abyss who put their hands up straight away to help and then told me so many lovely things and made me feel so much better about all of it.
> 
> You're all the very best <3

_10 months later_  
_Prague, Czechia_

'Legilimens,' Harry said, voice hard as he looked into the terrified eyes of the Healer in front of him. He felt himself pulled forward, his mind spearing through the defences of the woman whose robes he gripped in his fist.

Memories flashed all around him, like a school of fish. They darted this way and that, as though trying to escape him, but Harry was very, very good at this now. He focussed on what he wanted to know.

_Dead child. Strange murder. Accidental death._

The thoughts swam towards the pull of his mind, lured to his call. He grasped one to himself, seeing the flickering shadows of its content. It was the women's memory of the autopsy she'd recently performed on a seven year old boy who had died from an illness they'd had no knowledge of and no way of treating. It was tinged with grief and guilt. Harry gripped it tightly. This was what he'd come to the Prague Centre for Healing looking for.

Another memory was nudging at him, drawn by his call. He pulled it closer to examine it briefly. It was another autopsy, an older woman this time. She'd been found dead in the middle of the _Ministerstvo Magie_ , stripped naked, but with no obvious cause of death. They'd have ruled it an Avada, but for the look of terror on her face and the circle of raw skin on her chest, as though something had been cut away.

Harry pulled the memory closer and then cast around, seeking anything else that could be useful to him. The memories were fleeing, as the woman whose mind he'd invaded tried to protect herself from him. Harry smiled grimly. She didn't have a hope.

He held tight to the two he wanted, and stepped neatly back out of her mind, funnelling the twisting wisps of thought into the vials he'd placed on the bench beside him for just this purpose.

The woman opened her mouth as he left her mind, to scream or plead, or something. 

Harry didn't give her the chance.

'Obliviate.'

He'd stopped feeling guilty a long time ago.

~

His exit from the Centre was just as easy as his entry; a stolen robe, a glamour, and a smile that felt wrong on his face, and he was back on the street. He walked for fifteen minutes, taking a meandering path until he was sure he hadn't been followed, and then entered the small alley he'd left his bike in. No one he passed paid him any attention. It wasn't advisable to show too much interest in strangers these days, after all.

Harry shrugged the Healer's robe off and cast an Incendio at it before he vanished the remnants. With a flick of his hand he dispelled the Notice-Me-Not on his bike and threw his leg over it, reaching into the saddlebags behind himself for his leather jacket. He slipped it over his shoulders and tucked the two vials into the pocket inside, kicking the bike into life. He had two more tasks before he could go home and review what he'd found.

The Prague International Owlpost office was in a dingy little shop front that looked from the outside like it hosted regular drug deals. The inside didn't look much better. Harry entered the building and made straight for the back wall, angling his body away from the suspicious glare of the wizard behind the desk. 

He held his wrist against the symbol in front of him and felt the tattoo of a key warm against his skin. He could have set his access to the box to activate with a spoken charm, but having that charm embedded in his body made it so much more secure. He swung the metal door open and reached for the few letters, pulling at the neck of his leather jacket to slip them into the pocket inside. He'd paid some Pureblood prick a small fortune for the box eight years ago. Boxes that used a Geminio charm to duplicate their contents into any of the paired sites across the world were incredibly rare, but Hermione had demanded _some_ regular way of contacting him when he'd started curse-breaking all those years ago. The door shut with a click and Harry felt his tattoo warm again. 

He'd had trouble getting to the box when he'd first arrived in Prague. Not that he could blame the owners with the way the whole world had seemed to go to shit these last few months. Still, despite how the rarity of it made him stand out, he needed access to it, and in his current circumstance, it was particularly useful. He'd spotted Ron's stilted handwriting on one of the letters and was glad that although the postbox meant the 'Where the fuck are you?' argument would continue, it also meant Ron had no chance in hell of actually finding that out, unless Harry wanted to tell him. Which he didn't.

He ignored the prickle of eyes on him as he walked back outside, pausing before exiting the dingy little building. The streets had been quiet when he'd entered, and he didn't think things were bad enough yet that he'd see a band of Preservation members, or _Zachování_ , as they were known here, walking down the middle of the road in daylight, but it didn't hurt to be vigilant.

Satisfied everything was as it should be, Harry pushed the door open and stepped onto the street outside. He threw his leg over his motorcycle, kicking the stand out as he started it up with a rumble. The street was busy, but there was an air of nervous tension about it. People hurried along the footpaths, looking around them constantly, cars flowed through, almost breaking red lights in the need to keep moving. This part of the city was neither wizarding nor Muggle. In fact, most of the city was like that. Harry had liked that about Prague, the first time he'd visited it, years before. Now, though, the integration between Muggles and Wizards, and the simmering fear and hatred that sat underneath it, just made everything feel more desperate. 

The feeling of constant tension was grating on Harry, pushing his already tightly-wound brain into a hyper-vigilant state that was slowly but surely tearing him apart.

 _Five more days_.

Harry pushed that thought away. He couldn't. Not now. Not while he was out in the open. He could feel his breathing come faster and his heart begin to pound in his chest. He clenched his hands on the handlebars and forced himself to focus on what was in front of him. He had to follow his schedule. Even if everything was falling apart, maybe _because_ everything was falling apart. It was the first of the month and he'd collected his post. It was a Thursday, which meant he was due to see Jakub.

Just the thought of seeing Jakub made something inside him unravel slightly. He'd had a particularly bad week. The nightmares had been ceaseless. It was getting so that whenever he closed his eyes, he could see the images. They haunted him before he even fell into a fitful sleep. He knew why it was. It was because of what was coming, the date that was looming larger and larger in every part of his being.

He needed to see Jakub now. 

Harry wove through the traffic. The city had a strange, gothic glamour that had appealed to his mood when he'd arrived. That was before he'd realised how deep the rot ran, how far this new movement had spread. He could see signs of it all through the city. There was graffiti sprayed on the faces of buildings, wizarding and Muggle alike.

 _Přežití není obchodovatelné_ \- Survival is not negotiable.

 _Kouzlo je síla_ \- Magic is might.

 _Přicházíme pro vás_ \- We are coming for you.

There were signs of the festering new ideology as well, in the boarded up or burnt out buildings he rode past. Not everywhere, but enough to know that the damage was rising. The night-time incursions were increasing. The fear was growing and with it, Harry could sense the city beginning to fracture.

The Muggles didn't fully understand what they were dealing with yet. Most still resisted the idea that magic could be real and that the attacks were more than a group of deluded fanatics. But soon... soon the public magic use would be widespread enough that the Statute of Secrecy would be shattered beyond repair. Obliviation was impossible across a population of millions. If the Muggles learned of them, believed in them, and realised that the first contact with wizardkind was a violent one, Harry could only imagine the ways this violence would escalate.

Even the most moderate witches and wizards would be forced to defend themselves in the face of modern-day witch hunts. And there were so, so many more Muggles.

Harry let what he was seeing file away into his unconscious as he rode. He let it distract him from his morbid thoughts about the anniversary that was fast approaching and instead he took in details and made connections, mapping the spread of the destruction in his mind. 

He'd only been in Prague two months, but he'd witnessed the same discontent, the growth of the twisted movement, and the beginning of the violence against Muggles in Austria as he'd passed through it, and Slovakia before that. Everywhere, magical governments were attempting to keep peace, to cover up the damage, but it was like a virus, the way it spread across borders. It was as though someone was carrying a burning torch behind them as they travelled, lighting up the continent in their wake.

Harry shook his head, pulling himself out of thoughts about the Preservation movement. He was no Auror. He'd never liked working in a team. He far preferred having a curse in front of him and pulling and twisting at the magic until he forced it to bend to him. Stopping a movement of people bent on racial domination wasn't his fight. Not anymore. He had one goal. Find who had ordered his son's death and make them pay. His only interest in the newly formed uprising was in ensuring it didn't get in the way of that mission.

As long as he kept his head down, that shouldn't be a problem. In and out. Find the people he needed, get the information he needed and move on. That was how he'd been operating for the last ten months and it hadn't failed him yet.

It was twenty minutes before he was pulling up near Průhonice Park. It was just out of the city; he'd been riding, late one night, scared to sleep, and had come across it. It was still untouched by the violence that was creeping up on the city. Nature wasn't the enemy, after all.

Harry made his way back to the same place now, a huge lake, a castle in the background, hanging over it, reflected in the water. It wasn't Hogwarts, but there was something about the space that called to him. He could sense the comfort of the park around him, trying to draw him in, to soothe him. It didn't work. He could feel the shadow of James in his arms, in his heart. There was only one thing that was going to let him ease the pain that was screwed razor tight inside himself, and that was the reason he was here.

He made his way to the huge old oak at the water's edge and sat down, leaning against it.

He closed his eyes, just for a second, trying to gather his thoughts, to centre himself. When he opened them again, Jakub was sitting beside him, gazing out over the water. He'd appeared in exactly the same way he first had when Harry had come to sit here, just for a moment, to try and force some quiet inside his own mind.

Jakub was older than Harry, and looked like he slept rough most nights, hair dirty and stringy, clothes layered and worn. He could be any one of a thousand Muggles Harry had seen who were hard on their luck.

Harry had a very strong feeling Jakub was not, in fact, even human.

'Hello, young Dominus,' Jakub said, looking across at him, his eyes flickering for a moment in the fading light.

'It's Harry,' he said, as he always did. A part of him thought maybe Jakub was a bit senile, another part of him wondered if maybe Jakub had lost someone, once. A son. And maybe that was why he always seemed so happy to see Harry. He tried not to dwell on that thought. It made him want to vomit.

Jakub nodded agreeably at Harry's words and looked back over the water. 

'Have you been keeping well?' Harry asked, wanting to request what he came for, but at the same time, not wanting to rush through this. There was something about Jakub that made Harry feel it was important to take the time—to show him respect.

'The trees have been whispering, young Dominus,' Jakub said instead. 'They say change is coming.'

'Do they?' Harry asked, trying to keep his tone even. He wondered, not for the first time, if maybe Jakub sampled his own products, and maybe that was why he always sounded like he was channelling a particularly spaced-out Trelawney. Or maybe it was just that Harry's translation charms weren't as good as he thought they were. Maybe Jakub was just picking up on the fact that the whole bloody world seemed to be changing at the moment... Maybe he really could talk to trees. Who was Harry to judge?

'This change is a bad one, but it is one they have seen before,' Jakub said, looking up at the dark canopy of the huge old oak above them.

Harry followed his eyes, and for a second he thought he could hear it, whispers at the very edge of his hearing, words too fast to catch, hissing and spitting. He frowned and looked around, and as soon as he did so, the whispers cut off, as though they'd never been.

Harry looked back at Jakub, only to find Jakub watching him with ancient, knowing eyes. A part of Harry knew he didn't want any of the answers Jakub's face promised to provide him. He felt a prickling awareness across his skin, like something was waiting, holding its breath in anticipation.

'Have you restocked?' he asked instead.

Jakub watched him for a moment longer, eyes shining in the low light, and then he blinked and shuffled in his jacket pockets, patting himself down. At his movement Harry felt the tension in the air, tension he hadn't even realised had grown, break. And it was back to him and Jakub, the old man who lived in the park and dealt drugs to him every Thursday.

Jakub made a satisfied noise and held out a small plastic bag. Harry pulled his wallet out and counted a handful of Koruna in exchange. He tucked the bag into his pocket, pushing away the urge to roll himself a joint and light it up. He could wait until he got home. Jakub only ever gave him enough for a week and he'd need it to get to sleep.

'Thanks,' Harry said, pushing himself to his feet. Jakub just nodded in response. Harry had no idea if he dived for the gillyweed himself, but it was the most potent he'd ever smoked. Any and all strangeness from Jakub was a small price to pay for a few moments of relief each day.

'They will be here soon,' Jakub said, as Harry turned to leave.

'Who?' Harry asked, turning back to him. 

The spot under the tree was vacant.

~

Harry closed the door behind him, tugging hard on it to get it to shut. Bloody thing was sticky and squealed like a banshee, but he didn't mind it that way. Just meant one more layer of warning if his wards failed. He could feel them flare into life around him as he entered, blanketing the tiny apartment. The noises of neighbours cooking and yelling and watching television died down as though the room was wrapped in cotton wool. He directed a stream of magic into them, pushing them to the highest defence setting.

There was no way he wanted to be woken in the middle of the night by some Preservation nut standing above his bed, screaming at him to 'Join the movement for survival or die like _Normální_ scum.' Some of the things he'd read in the papers or in his letters from home had made him feel sick. Some days he felt like he was back at the breakfast table in the Great Hall, opening up the _Daily Prophet_ and waiting to see who else had been killed.

Harry kicked his boots off and crossed to the small table with its one, rickety chair, pulling the two vials and the letters out of his jacket and laying them on the table in front of him. His eyes roamed over them as he pulled the bag of 'weed from his other pocket and reached for his papers. He'd look at the vials in the morning, and add what the memories told him to his ever-growing list of leads. Doing it before bed often made the nightmares worse.

He rolled the joint with quick, practiced movements as he considered which of the letters he was least reluctant to open. He made a bitter face at all of them. None held anything but misery.

Placing the joint between his lips, he slipped his wand from its holster and tapped it, lighting the end and breathing in with a hum of relief. He held the smoke inside his lungs as long as he could, feeling its comfort seep through him, then he tilted his head back to the ceiling and breathed it out in one continuous stream. He felt his whole body begin to unravel as he did so, his shoulders unclenching, the headache behind his eyes easing.

Harry took another drag and closed his eyes as he felt the edge of his grief, his constant awareness of it, begin to dull. It never went away, never, but when he smoked, he came the closest to feeling like he might survive it, one day.

He slipped a hand inside the neck of his t-shirt and let his fingertips rest over the tattoo on his chest. He could feel it moving, the lightest of touches against the pads of his fingers. He didn't need to look at it to know its movements intimately.

Harry closed his eyes and sucked more of the smoke into his lungs as he sat and felt his son's heartbeat flutter under his fingertips. He'd had it done when James was born, right over his own heart. He'd wanted to burn it off, those first few weeks after James had been killed. It felt like a sick mockery of his life. But now... now it brought him a strange comfort.

He let himself feel the movement for a moment longer, let himself imagine James before him, smiling up at him as he reached out, hands grasping, begging to be lifted into the air.

Then he sighed and took another pull of the joint before he placed it in the ashtray in front of him and  
dragged the letters closer. He sifted through them before putting the three that addressed him as James at the top of the pile. He drew a knife from his belt, slipping it under the seal of each to break it and then scanned their contents quickly.

They were lists, each of them. Names, ages, dates and locations. Details of deaths that didn't stack up; illnesses that shouldn't have killed, creatures that shouldn't have been where they were found, gruesome murders with no clues at the scene. Harry pulled a pen towards himself and ran his finger down the lists, ticking off those he'd already investigated, and putting a star next to three in Czechia that he'd need to look into while he was here. He compared the letters side by side. There was a cluster in Italy that looked promising. Nothing yet had directed him there, so it was a possibility this was something new, something that could bring him closer to James' killer.

 _Or it could be another dead end. Just like every other one you've chased for the past year_ , whispered a voice in his mind, cruel and cutting.

He grimaced and set the letters aside, tapping the symbol at the bottom of each with his wand to release the funds his researchers expected from him in order to keep doing their grisly work. Then he picked the joint up again, taking two deep drags until his head was buzzing and the tip was almost burning his fingers. He stubbed it out and reached for the next letter, blowing the smoke into the air as he did.

It was from Jonas Fauster, one of the men he'd used to freelance for occasionally. It listed a few jobs and what they were paying. Harry scanned down the list quickly. He was about to put it aside when he noticed one based in Sedlec, an hour from where he was. His eyes flicked over the details.

_Location: Sedlec Ossuary, Czechia_  
_Job: Reports of wards weakening on burial site. Suspected interference from cursed object. Immediate attention required._  
_Contact: Ossuary Keeper, Daniela Musilová_  
_Offer: 600 Galleons_

He frowned, hesitating for a moment, then reached for his wand. He needed the money. His vaults had taken a hit in the last year. He wasn't poor, not yet, but he couldn't keep spending money the way he was at the moment without some way of replenishing it. And he'd be damned if he asked anyone back home for help. He tapped the job and it disappeared from the page. Jonas would know he was in Czechia, but that couldn't be helped. And Jonas knew far better than to share that information with anyone else.

Harry looked back down at the three letters still in front of him. He grimaced again and then picked up Ron's, cutting the seal off and taking a deep breath before opening it.

_Harry, we're having a service for James on the sixth, to remember him. We're meeting at the cemetery and then we'll be at the Burrow. You should be there. For both of them. Or either. This is important._

_Ginny's doing alright, like I told you. She's talking again, at least. But the last few weeks have been hard on her. I know she'd be able to deal with this better if you were here too._

Harry huffed out his breath, feeling the guilt churn through him, the reminder that it was almost a year since James' death burning painfully in his chest. Fuck Ron, always straight to the point. As if Harry didn't know it was important. As if the thought of being there, and seeing that tiny gravestone, and having everyone touch him with their sympathy and love, wasn't the worst thing he could possibly imagine.

And Ginny. He laughed mirthlessly. As if Ginny wanted to see him. He still remembered her ringing accusation, _You should have been there_. He knew exactly what Ginny would see when she looked at him. She'd see the death of her son. She was better off without him. They all were.

Harry's fingers clenched on the letter and he almost ripped it in half. He forced himself to keep reading. Ron generally gave him important information after his initial guilt trip. He needed to keep reading.

_Also, can you pick up your bloody post more than once a month, please? It's doing my head in waiting to see if you'll collect it, or if this is the time we'll find out that they got you, too._

_The whole bloody continent is going to hell. I know you won't tell me where you are, but if you're still in Europe, be careful, will you. We're getting reports that the German and French Ministries are close to declaring a state of emergency, and you know what that will mean; travel bans, magical signature registries, increased Auror presence. Just make sure you're not swept up in any of that, yeah?_

_Anyway, England seems to be okay, for now. I think we still remember the damage this sort of Preservation bullshit can do. There's been whispers, a bit of graffiti and the like, but nothing we can't stamp out straight away. Anyone we've caught has been next to useless in terms of leading us to the cause. They're all just reading it in the news at the moment. I don't think we have any local agitators organising things on our patch yet._

_I miss you, Harry. Come home soon, will you?_  
_Ron_

Harry folded the letter, tracing his fingers along the folds of parchment slowly before he put it aside. He put Ron's words aside in his mind, compartmentalising them, putting them where they were safe and couldn't hurt him.

James. In the ground.

Harry shook his head, forcing that thought out of his mind. He picked up Sophia's letter next. The tiny pang of guilt he felt when he got something from her pricked at him but he pushed that away too. It wasn't as though she was doing something she hadn't freely consented to. The fact that he'd leaned on her almost obsessive worship of him to get her to spy for him was something he'd learned to live with a long time ago.

He didn't even bother reading the words, it would be some drivel about a pet dog or an outing to a farm. Instead he cast his wand in a complex symbol over the page, watching as the letters rearranged themselves into the real message Sophia had sent him.

He scanned down the page.

_Preservation attacks_  
_No known deaths._  
_Two counts of recorded hate crime. Obliviation employed._  
_Fourteen counts of hate speech. All removed._  
_Three suspects in custody. No significant charges._

Ron was giving him information about what was happening at home, but Harry knew from past experience that Ron had a tendency to hide key facts in an attempt to get Harry to act the way Ron thought he ought to. With Sophia's verification, he could feel a little more comfortable.

He dropped his gaze to the next set of info, and swallowed the pang of frustration at seeing the same words he'd seen every letter for the last six months.

_Draco Malfoy_  
_Status remains unknown._  
_Reason for murders remains unknown._

_Scorpius Malfoy_  
_Status remains unknown._  
_Welfare remains unknown._

There had been so many leads to start with, so many possibilities. Harry had considered abandoning his research on Erklings in Germany to follow some of them up. If anyone could find out where Malfoy had disappeared to, it was him. But nothing had been quite substantial enough to make him think it was worth his time to search elsewhere. Malfoy was just one clue as to what had happened to James, after all.

Except then the Erklings had turned out to be a dead end. He hadn't been able to find a single recorded case of someone bending one to their will. They were vicious, twisted little creatures who hunted and ate children, luring them away with the compulsion woven into their high-pitched cackles. The fact that one had made its way across the strict control of multiple borders, through his wards and into James' room, when the last recorded attack in England had been eighty years earlier, seemed to be some sort of crazy tragedy.

Harry knew it wasn't a coincidence. He knew it with every fibre of his being. But nothing he could find proved his point. By the time he turned his attention back to Malfoy, all of the leads had gone cold. It seemed clear he'd skipped the country, but to where?

Harry threw Sophia's letter aside, the gillyweed in his system helping him to let his frustration slip away. He looked down at the letters and picked up the last one, the one from Hermione.

He held it in his hands, looking down at it, as he rubbed his thumb gently across the face of it, across her flowing handwriting, spelling out his name. He felt pain move through him, the aching loss of missing her, and of having no one to stand by his side as he hunted through the darkness.

He looked at her letter for a long time before he conjured a ball of blue flame, hovering in place above his ashtray. 

He watched the flame bob and dance for a second, and then he fed the letter into it, face impassive as he watched it curl in on itself.

~

_The sound tugs at the edge of his mind, pulling him awake. It's insistent. He feels like he only just went to sleep. He's so tired all the time._

_'Dada,' comes the cry again and Harry forces himself to wake. It's James. Of course. It's James in his room._

_'Dada. Daaaaaa!'_

_'Hang on mate,' Harry mutters, pushing the covers back and swinging his legs out of bed, rubbing his eyes. He silences the monitoring charm and makes his way through the dark house, not bothering with lights. The nightlight is on in James' room; that will be enough for Harry to grab him and wrap him up in his blanket so he can rock him back to sleep._

_He smiles at the thought of it, despite his tiredness._

_'Dada!' There's a high-pitched edge to James' voice now, a note of fear that shouldn't be there. Harry moves faster, feet slapping on the wooden floorboards as he jogs down the hall._

_He reaches James' door and pauses, with his hand on the handle. The noise within has stopped. Everything has stopped. The world feels like it's hanging in some silent, eternal moment._

_He twists the handle and pushes the door open._

Harry woke, screaming, throat raw from it. He groped under his pillow for his wand and cast a Lumos, blinking as he tried to clear the image filling his mind. James, broken and bloody on the floor, that creature crouching over him, cackling insanely. 

He sat up, moving to the edge of his bed and reaching for the joint he'd left there before he went to sleep. His fingers shook as he fumbled for it, before finally lighting it up, bringing it to his mouth and breathing deeply.

The images of James receded slowly as he sucked the smoke down in desperate gulps, letting it carry away the immediacy of his terror and the sharpness of his memories.

Last to fade was the image of the figure standing in the corner of the room, cloaked all in black. It had been there and not there at the same time. His mind couldn't seem to focus on the details of it, but he could remember the feel of it. Cold. Triumphant. Malevolent. He knew, without a doubt, that the thing had been smiling as it watched his son die.

~

He woke early the next morning. His sleep had been fitful, more a forced relaxation from the 'weed than any true rest. He took a quick shower, banging at the pipes to try and get the hot to switch on, and then gave it up for a bad joke. 

He stared at the vials of memory on the table in front of him as he towelled himself roughly dry. It was like they were taunting him, swirling in placid circles, as though to entice him into the death and misery in their depths. Harry grunted at them, scooping them off the table and into the Mokeskin pouch at his hip. He couldn't face them yet. He'd do Jonas' job first. 

His breakfast was a coffee and a fag and he lit another as he headed down to the street and his bike. He didn't bother asking for directions. Sedlec Ossuary wouldn't be hard to find. It was a major tourist attraction, after all. Besides, the few people out on the street this early looked harried, passing quickly, looking around constantly. He didn't think any of them would take kindly to being approached by a stranger. 

Harry rode east out of the city, focussing on where he was going, barely slowing as he rode past what looked like a localised earthquake; all the buildings in a half mile radius reduced to rubble. There were people swarming all over the site, magical and Muggle alike, and Harry spared a moment to hope there weren't too many casualties. He could see the Preservation symbol hovering over the site, made up of drifting strands of smoke and dust, twining together in an image of hate.

He glared up at the circle, cut through by a diamond and two triangles. He had no idea what the image meant but just the sight of it set rage simmering inside him. He turned his head away and kept riding. This was not his fight. He had a job to do and there was nothing he could help with here.

It took him about an hour before he rode into Hlouška. It turned out the Sedlec Ossuary _was_ fucking hard to find. He took about fifteen wrong turns before he finally found the street that pointed him to the Ossuary. It all looked so _normal_ , small concrete houses and shops, little front yards. There weren't many people about, but he could see curtains twitch as he passed, and he knew people were watching.

He pulled the bike to a stop out the front of the Ossuary and killed the engine, looking up at the concrete arch towering above him. The face of it was cracked, chunks missing from the render. The wrought iron gates were locked and there was a large red sign on them stating the site was closed for the foreseeable future.

Harry moved closer, feeling the wards tingle over his skin. He pushed against them, feeding them a hint of his magic, just enough for them to want to send an alert to their keeper. Then he stepped back, studying the building in front of him through the gates.

It wasn't much to look at from the outside. He could see a small entry tower and behind it loomed a gothic-looking church, no different from hundreds of others he'd seen. Off to either side were gardens and tombstones. Some were weathered, bearing their age about them, others looked newer, more modern. For a moment, the thought of James' grave hit him like a punch in the guts, sucking all of the air from his lungs. He was there again, in another cemetery, in another country standing by a raw hole in the ground.

He forced in a breath, locking the image out of his mind. This was not where James lay. This place had nothing to do with him. Harry was here to do a job. That was all. He had to get his fucking shit together and do his job. 

He forced in another deep, shaking breath and pulled his mind back under his control. He let tendrils of his magic seep out of him as he breathed out, feeling his way around the wards. He knew the place he needed to focus on would be in the crypts underground. What was on the surface was just the Muggle version of the site.

The door to the entry tower opened and Harry watched as a woman walked towards him. She was about the same height as him, with long dark hair that hung over her shoulder in a plait. She was dressed in a modified robe, belted at the waist but without sleeves, so that her arms were left bare. Harry flicked his gaze over the tattoos she had twined around them. He knew, better than most, the power tattoos could have. 

' _Dobré ráno_ ,' the woman said, and then his translation charm kicked in and he could follow the rest. 'I am Daniela Musilová, the DeathKeeper of this site. Thank you for coming.'

She laid her hand on the gates and Harry saw the tattoos on her arms shift and flow as she shaped the wards to admit him. He realised that they were tentacles, from a Kraken, by the look of them, and that likely the body of the beast was inked into her back. It was a powerful being to invoke the protection of. Storing power in tattoos was rare, and Harry could count on one hand the number of people he'd met who used animal forms to do it. It made the magic more volatile, and it bled some of the spirit of the creature into the wielder in turn. Harry let his magic drift towards her, gently, not pushing, but the tentacles writhed and she sent him a sharp look almost immediately.

'Please don't do that, Curse Breaker. I have a very delicate connection to the magic of this site, and I don't think you would enjoy accidentally becoming linked with that.'

Harry pulled his magic back, but didn't apologise.

'What happened here?' he asked instead.

Daniela gestured him towards the entryway and began speaking as they moved through it and into the main church. 'Around six days ago, I noticed a significant weakening in the wards that close the magical flow of the chapel off from the upper church.' 

She indicated a set of steps and Harry started down them as he listened.

'We've been having trouble over the last six months, as the conquest spread closer to our area, but this is the first instance of a weakening that I haven't been able to shore up. I believe someone has placed an object among the bones that is causing the damage, but I haven't been able to identify it.' Her voice sounded somewhat resentful at that admission.

Harry stopped dead as they entered the doorway at the end of the stairwell. Everywhere he looked, he could see bones. Skulls, spines, rib cages. Thousands of them, hundreds of thousands, were stacked, or hanging, all over the interior of the room. _Displayed_ , was the only word he could think of to describe it. Four enormous bell-shaped domes sat at each corner of the underground chapel and everywhere he could see there were human bones. They'd been arranged in artistic patterns; they hung from the ceiling like macabre chandeliers. Thigh bones were draped like curtains. Human bodies had been turned into decorations.

Harry had heard of the ossuary, but seeing it in person was far beyond what he'd been prepared for. James flashed into his mind again. Alone. In the ground. The eyes of the skulls stared at him as though they were accusing him.

'What the fuck is this place?' he asked, stepping back and eyeing the DeathKeeper with a new wariness. A site like this couldn't be anything but dark. He gathered his magic into his fingertips, ready to flick his wand out at the slightest movement from the woman in front of him.

She gazed at him, her face still, her posture unconcerned. 'This is a sacred place. It is a temple dedicated to life.'

Harry snorted, looking around. 'I think you and me are the only living things in here. What are there, like ten thousand skeletons?'

'We approximate there are around fifty thousand people interred at Sedlec Ossuary,' Daniela responded.

'And what do you do with them?' Harry asked. He knew his subtext was clear. What sort of dark rituals are run from a site like this?

'We keep their bodies safe while their spirits journey. They provide a balance to this world.' Daniela clearly noticed the sceptical expression on his face, because she continued. 'Some Muggles believe that this place holds the skull of Adam, the first man, placed on earth by their deity. They believe the site has been made holy through this presence and through soil sprinkled from Golgotha, the site upon which their Saviour was said to have been crucified.'

'And you don't?' Harry asked, picking up on her tone. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his smokes, lighting one up with a flick of his wand.

'You can't smoke in here,' Daniela said. Harry ignored her and flapped his hand at her, to get her to answer his question.

'This site is sacred, yes,' she said, with a frown at him, 'and it holds great power. It could be that an ancient skull is interred below the foundations of the chapel, and it could be that soil soaked in blood was sprinkled on this site.' Daniela shrugged one shoulder, holding his gaze, an unshakeable certainty in her eyes. 'But it was sacred long before these things occurred. It's a life-giving well. It's a space for rebirth and rejuvenation. The Muggles sense these things. They just can't interpret what they're sensing correctly.'

'So it's a site for life and you cover it in death?' Harry asked, gesturing around, waving his smoke in the air, as he began to get exasperated with the circular nature of the conversation.

'We support balance,' Daniela said. 'Unfettered life is no less dangerous than unfettered death. We filter the life of this site through the death that surrounds it. We keep both safe.'

'Right,' Harry said, not convinced, but not wanting to argue the point any further. He'd explored all sorts of religious and magical beliefs during his travels over the past ten years. It was easier not to get into arguments about it.

'So what do you need me to do?' he said, wanting to get back to the job at hand, to get paid and to leave this strangely unsettling place.

'I need you to identify the anomaly and neutralise it, so that I can repair the damage to the wards,' Daniela said, watching him, as though wondering what his response would be.

'Fine,' Harry said. 'I prefer to work alone. If you wouldn't mind?' he asked, tilting his head towards the ceiling and the world above them.

'That will not be possible, Curse Breaker,' Daniela said, eyes unblinking.

'Fuck's sake,' Harry said under his breath. 'Make sure you're properly warded, then, in case whatever's in here fights back.'

The Kraken's tentacles undulated across the DeathKeeper's arms again, but Harry didn't wait to watch the effect. He turned back to the room, taking one last drag on his smoke before he vanished it and got to work.

He pulled his wand out and cast quickly and efficiently, the usual web of detection charms. As he always did, he set one for magical resonance, one for physical detection and one he'd developed himself, which he referred to as his 'gut' charm. The only way he'd been able to explain it to Ron was to say that it searched for things that were not quite right and drew his attention to them. It was his instinct wrapped up in the equivalent of a permanent dose of Felix.

He roamed across the chapel as his charms skittered this way and that, hunting their way through the room. They clashed against the wards again and again, testing out the limits of them, finding the corruption in them and flaring it into life for Harry to examine. It was spread all over, as though something had been gnawing away at the wards, but the most concentrated damage was in the north corner, under a pillar of skulls, staring out at the room with their dark, empty eye sockets.

Harry moved in that direction and hunkered down, peering at the damage. Then he glanced across at his charms. The magical resonance one, as expected, was still going nuts over the sheer volume of magic on the site, though he did notice it kept hunting around the stones of the floor and then up over the bones. Interestingly the physical detection charm was paying more attention to the bones than he would have thought as well. Harry stood up and moved closer.

He peered at the stack of skulls in front of him while the 'gut' charm prowled around his feet, rubbing up against him and telling him he was onto something. They all looked the same, nothing seemed to be out of place, none looked like they'd been disturbed in centuries, let alone replaced by something damaging. Then Harry frowned, leaning closer as he lit his wand up with a Lumos and held it close to the back of the skull pillar so he could peer into the darkness.

'Are they supposed to be mouldy?' he asked, not looking away from the bones.

'That's impossible,' Daniela said, moving closer. 'I cast continual preservation and protection charms on each individual bone. Not even dust should be on them.'

'Well they're mouldy,' Harry said flatly, and then he frowned as he noticed a slight twitch of movement from the mould.

'Fucking Bundimun,' he muttered, recognising the pests. He should have guessed from the musty, decaying smell in the air that there was a Bundimun infestation, but he'd just assumed that was the way the chapel smelled.

He directed his wand at the creature and muttered 'Scourgify'.

A second later he was blasted off his feet and into Daniela behind him as a ball of flame boomed out of the skull pillar and flared against both their wards. They both hit the ground hard. Harry pushed himself up almost immediately, defensive spells at his fingertips, but it didn't seem as though anything more than the initial blast was going to attack them.

He looked down at Daniela, who was just picking herself up off the ground. The neck of her robe was open and Harry's eyes narrowed as he took in her appearance, his response to the explosion fading in the face of what her dishevelled state revealed.

'What the fuck is that?' Harry asked, anger in his face as he pointed his wand at the woman's chest, the skin now bared to reveal the same sign he'd seen displayed in the sky that morning. 'Are you a Preservation member?'

'Isn't the explosion inside my chapel the more pressing question?' she asked, concern on her face.

Harry stepped closer until his wand was just inches from her chest. 'Answer my question,' he said, voice hard. 'Are you a Preservation member?'

Daniela's expression twisted with disgust at his words. She brought a hand up to touch the tattoo on her chest. ' _This_ is the Seal of Triumph. That perversion being flaunted by the _Zachování_ is a corruption of the power of Triumph and life. They turn their eyes instead to Conquest.'

' _What?_ ' Harry said, nothing about her statement making sense to him.

'The circle represents the world,' Daniela said, tracing her finger around it, from memory as she held Harry's gaze. 'The diamond represents the Host, or humanity and our role in preserving life,' she continued, tracing the shape inside the circle. 'The figure eight,' she said, finger following the two sharp-edged triangles linked together and placed over the diamond, 'is the infinity symbol, and the sign that life prevails, or triumphs, in some form. And it always will.'

'It looks exactly like the Preservation symbol,' Harry said, not convinced in the slightest.

'You're wrong,' she said flatly. ' _They've_ put the infinity sign inside the host. For them the sign represents above all things preserving magical life. It's a banner of Conquest to ensure magical life is eternal, at the expense of all else. It is _filth_ ,' she spat, anger clear on her face.

Harry eyed the symbol a moment longer and then turned back to the pillar, his movement a dismissal. He didn't have time for a discussion on theological bullshit. It had nothing to do with him anyway.

'Bundimun are a pest,' he said, and raised his wand again. 'They have no defensive abilities, apart from a bit of acid spitting. And they eat dirt, or they should,' he frowned. 'I think these ones are eating your wards. They've been modified somehow, made far more powerful than they should be.'

He cancelled his charms and cast a new set, these ones focussed on identifying every trace of organic matter in the room. He and Daniela both lit up like suns, but Harry was far more interested in the glow emanating from the hidden sides of almost every bone in the room.

'They're hiding,' he said, looking around. 'This is a deliberate attack.'

'Get rid of them,' Daniela said, and her voice was furious. Harry wasn't sure whether her anger was over the fact that her own charms had failed or the fact that something had dared to touch her precious bones.

He ignored her words and focussed on the problem. He needed to figure out the modification to their nature and cancel it out, then the DeathKeeper could draw the lot of them out and exterminate them. He returned to the wall and pulled a skull from the pillar, ignoring Daniela's cry of outrage at his movement.

He sat on the floor with it in his hands and looked at the moss-coloured creature plastered to the back of it. Concentrating, he sent his magic running down his arms, activating the runes for clear sight, protection, and strength that he'd had carved into his skin. He used those three the most, and whenever he did he remembered faintly Hermione's wry smile as he'd shown them to her, his excitement as he'd told her of the new practice he'd discovered in Tibet. She'd been so amused to tell him the practice of embedding magic in one's body was as old as magic itself, it had just fallen out of fashion as wands became the preferred way to wield the force. Then she had touched each rune gently. He remembered her words. 'I'm glad that Ron and I can be with you, even when you're away from us.' He hadn't understood what she meant. 'You chose runes for clear sight, protection, and strength, no? I'm glad you'll be able to care for yourself if you won't take us with you.' 

Harry let his magic pool in his chest against the runes for the unknown and for need. He'd got those much later, when he'd started taking on bigger and more dangerous curses, when he'd started taking more risks. He felt them warm in his skin as well, then he opened his eyes and sent out his magic in the same way as he would with a cursed object. Delicate, probing, getting a feel for the nature of what was in front of it, without tripping any of its protections.

He had no idea how long it was before he latched onto it, but when he did, he knew that he had found what he was seeking. There was a hint of something wrong inside the creature, something purposeful and ugly, something beyond the animal thoughts of eat and reproduce.

'Do you have anything in here that would be damaged by a strong reversal spell?' Harry asked, not taking his eyes off the skull.

Daniela seemed to consider for a moment before she spoke. 'No, every piece of magic in here has been layered with centuries of reinforcement charms. A reversal spell won't do more than skim the surface of that.'

Harry set the skull down on the ground and stood, closing his eyes as he centred himself, pulling his power around him. He breathed in and out, drawing more and more magic into himself with each breath. He built it until he was shaking with the force of containing it. He waited just a beat more and then threw out his hands.

'Novis,' he yelled, and he let the power flood from him, washing over the room like a wave. He could feel everything it touched, felt it rending and slashing the wrongness inside the creatures, pulling them back to what they had been, letting the order dissolve back into chaos. He opened his eyes and watched it burn its way through the room.

When it was done, he cast a Scourgify over the skull at his feet and smiled grimly as the Bundimun attached to it crumbled into dust and fell away.

His magic was still raw, crackling all over his skin, eager to do his bidding. Daniela moved closer and placed her hand over his, to turn him or to thank him, he didn't know. But the moment her skin touched his, his magic lashed out at her, forcing her back from him. Harry's realisation that his spell had cancelled her shields as well was just quick enough to stop him from ripping her to shreds. He pulled his magic back with a wrench.

Daniela drew back with a gasp, though her next words put paid to the idea that the magical reaction was what had startled her.

'You have the touch of death on you,' she said, holding the hand that had touched him against her chest. A trace of fear came into her eyes for the first time since he'd been on site.

'No shit,' Harry said, wiping his hair away from his forehead briefly.

Daniela shook her head dismissively, 'Not the death curse on your face. It's twined with your soul. It's a part of you. He watches you.'

All of a sudden, Daniela's eyes reminded him of Jakub's, as though she, too, were seeing far more than she should. Harry remembered the cloaked figure from his dreams, haunting him. _Hunting him?_

'Who watches me?' Harry said, not wanting to entertain the idea, but needing to know at the same time.

'You are a Dominus. You know his face,' Daniela said. 'You have met him many times before.'

'What did you call me?' Harry asked, his heart beating faster in his chest. It couldn't be a coincidence, this complete stranger calling him by the same name Jakub did.

'You're a Dominus. A Master. I can feel it on you. Death is wrapped all around you.'

Harry felt those words echo through him. A Master. A Master of Death?

'Fuck,' he whispered, backing up. 'You're wrong. I left all that behind a long time ago.'

Daniela tilted her head to one side. 'Death is eternal,' she said. 'He does not count time in the way you do.'

Harry shook his head, not wanting to hear it. Not wanting to listen. 'You're wrong,' he said again, turning for the stairs, his steps picking up as he got closer.

'Beware, Dominus,' Daniela called after him as he made his way up the stairs, grasping at the stone walls to force himself up them faster. 'The Horsemen are riding.'

~

It was late when Harry got back to his room. The streets were almost empty as he rode back through the city. No one wanted to be out after dark, nowadays. He parked his bike and disillusioned it before he headed upstairs, his mind still full of everything he'd seen at the Ossuary. He'd barely paid attention on his ride home, instead he'd played Daniela's words through his mind over and over again, trying to make sense of them.

He set his wards and then poured himself a glass of whisky. The fridge was empty apart from a leftover curry from a few nights earlier. He heated it quickly with his wand and then brought it to the table, picking at it as he pulled his notepad towards himself and began to scribble thoughts and connections.

_Master of Death? Only have cloak? Stone long gone. Wand still in Dumbledore's grave(?) Can't be true?_

_Preservation? Corruption? Seals? What does it all mean? Is it real or bullshit?_

_Secret society? Who is Daniela Musilová? Why does she know so much?_

_Bundimun had been tampered with. Should this be possible? Control of creatures. Link to Erkling control???_

He knew trying to draw some link between Daniela's strangeness and James' death was a very long bow, but he'd spent months analysing everything that seemed slightly out of the ordinary to see if there was a connection, to see if it fit. It was all he could do. He _had_ to find out who killed James. He had to make them pay and then maybe, _maybe_ he could start to heal.

He wrote until his hand cramped, then he pushed his half-eaten meal away and downed the rest of his whisky before he reached for the pouch at his side. He pulled the neck of it open and searched for the bundle of papers he kept in there. It was all of his notes and research to date. His fingers nudged against the two newest vials of memory and he pulled those out as well.

With a flick of his wand he had his papers lining the walls of the small room and he looked around, trying to see where the connections were, where all of this fit into everything else.

The DeathKeeper could have just been a nutter. That was a very real possibility. Some of the stuff she was talking about was crazy. The balance between life and death. Normal people didn't control that. Life was just something that happened until death cut it short. There was no balance to it. There was no fairness. If there was, James would be alive.

Harry reached inside his shirt to touch the gently pulsing tattoo over his own heart. He let James' heartbeat soothe him as his own began to rise. With his other hand he Accioed his bag of joints, pulled one out and lit it up. He blew the smoke out as he put his booted feet up on the table and leaned back, looking around the room, eyes flicking from one idea to another.

He reached for his pen and notepad and began to scribble again.

_How much of a threat is the Preservation movement? DeathKeeper takes their ideology very seriously. Is it Voldemort 2.0: One or two megalomaniacs who've gathered a following? Or is there something more at work?_

Harry frowned down at the vials on the table. He needed to record them properly. He reached back into the pouch and pulled out the real reason his vaults were running low. He'd found it in Germany. A mix between a Pensieve and a Muggle projector. He'd known he needed something like it the moment he started stealing memories.

He poured the first one into the top of the device, and watched it play out over the wall above his bed. The image flickered and the notes and drawings and maps on the wall underneath it distorted it strangely, but Harry preferred it that way. It made it less real. He watched as the Healers cut the boy open, then made notes as they discussed and discarded various theories about how he'd died. It didn't lead to anything. None of it ever led to anything, but Harry took his notes and sent them sailing up onto the wall to join the hundreds of others.

Then he sighed and poured the second memory in. This death reminded him of one other he'd looked into, months earlier. That man had been left in a public place as well. Harry stood up, walking to the wall as he scanned over his notes until he pulled off the sheet he wanted. He skimmed over it, biting the inside of his cheek as he read. Public place was the same, but the manner of death was completely different. The Slovakian man had had every single bone in his body broken, though his skin had been intact. No one had been able to figure out how it had happened. Harry ran his finger down the page. Intact except for... _Ah, there it was. He had a patch of skin cut off his chest._

Harry made his notes on the new case and then linked the two together, sending them floating back up onto the wall.

None of it made sense. None of it formed a solid pattern. None of it linked back to James, but he could feel it all teasing at the edges of his mind, as though the answers were just out of reach. He took another drag on the joint and let the smoke loosen his thoughts, relax the tension that wrapped them into a tangled mess he couldn't unravel.

He thought about the things he knew.

1\. Someone sent a creature to kill James.  
2\. Someone is in my mind at night.  
3\. Something is very wrong in the world. 

But it couldn't all be linked. Could it? It was mad to think that his baby son's murder was linked to some plot to take over the Muggle world and have wizards reign. After all, the unexplained deaths he'd been investigating had no links to the actions of Preservation members, no links that he'd found, anyway.

He shook his head. It was only Daniela's words about them that was making him think they were something more significant than a bunch of racist arseholes on a power trip. He couldn't create some worldwide conspiracy out of a chance conversation. That sort of thinking was exactly what Ron and Hermione had been so concerned about before he left. He remembered the sting of their pity and disappointment. He remembered Hermione's careful words about Mind Healers and rest time. They thought he was mad. They thought James' death had sent him off his rocker, had sent him chasing ghosts around the world.

James' death had no connection to the rise of the Preservation movement.

 _Unless they wanted you out of the way,_ whispered a voice in Harry's mind. The voice that said it was _his_ fault James was dead. That it was Harry they'd been after that night. _Harry_ who should have been home sleeping—who would have been if he hadn't gone out on a job at the last minute.

Harry shook his head, and took another drag on his joint, letting the smoke help him dispel the thought. That was mad. The Preservation uprising hadn't even started in England a year ago, had still barely reached England. He wouldn't have even heard about it until months after it started, let alone have tried to do something about it. Even now he wasn't inclined to do anything about it.

 _That's because your son is dead_ , whispered the voice again. _James is gone and now you want nothing except revenge._

Harry huffed out the smoke in an angry breath and his eye caught on a word written in large print on the wall.

_Dominus?_

He needed to speak to Jakub. There were too many similarities between what he'd said to Harry in the past and what he'd heard from Daniela today. Harry waved his wand sharply to send the papers flying off the wall and back into a pile. He tucked them away in his Mokeskin pouch again, alongside his collection of memories and adapted Pensieve and sighed, pushing his way out of his chair. He turned and threw the pouch and his wand on his bed and then stripped out of his clothes, letting them fall to the floor.

His head was fuzzy when he fell into bed, pulling the threadbare blankets up around him. He let his fingers rest on the tattoo on his chest, let himself imagine it was James, sleeping there, having woken, needing Harry in the middle of the night. It was with that image in his mind that he drifted into sleep.

~

Nightmares woke him just before dawn. He'd been back in the chapel, surrounded by the bones. He could still remember every detail of it, as though he'd been reliving it, looking at it from all angles. Then the dream had changed, and the bones had changed and he had known, all of a sudden, that it was James he was seeing, James' bones he was facing. James dead fifty thousand times over, blank eyes staring at him, skeletal fingers reaching for him.

And, always, just behind him, that sense of being watched, always watched. And a gloating pleasure in the feeling of it.

He threw himself out of bed with a growl, picking his clothes up off the floor and slipping them back on, not bothering with a shower. He pulled his hair into a messy, knotted tangle, made himself a strong black coffee and drank it down as fast as he could. He could feel a restless itching under his skin, like he needed to be somewhere and was already late.

The twenty minute ride to Průhonice Park seemed to take forever, even though he was pushing the speed much faster than he should have been. He passed three patrols, two of Muggle police and one of Aurors, and was glad he'd set a full strength Notice-Me-Not before he left home. The last thing he needed was to be picked up by some overzealous security guard.

He walked quickly through the park, and over the trimmed lawns that normally soothed him. Now, with the sun barely rising over the horizon, the trees took on a sinister cast, the shadows of their branches reaching out like long fingers, clawing at him as he passed.

It occurred to him, as he walked, that he had no idea how he would find Jakub, if Jakub wasn't at the place they normally met. It was five more days until their normal Thursday meetup. Harry had no idea where Jakub actually lived, and had no interest in wandering the park all day, calling out to him.

As he got closer to the huge old oak at the edge of the lake, Harry's steps slowed. He glanced around himself. The slightly creepy feel to the forest in the semi-darkness had shifted into something more sinister. Around him the trees were silent. Not even the leaves were rustling. He hadn't registered the calls of the birds as they woke up for the day, but now, with that sound stopping too, its absence blared in his ears like a siren.

The silence felt heavy. Ominous. He felt like the forest was holding its breath, and he could sense a strange power sitting behind that. He wondered what would happen when its silence broke.

He pulled his wand out and held it loosely in his fingers, gathering his magic and holding it ready.

He could see the oak when the whispering started. It was all around him, fierce and angry, too fast for his ears to follow. It rose in volume, like the hissing static of a radio, until it was all he could hear. He glanced up at the trees to see that they were moving now, the leaves shivering together, branches whipping. He felt like he could almost hear words in their movement and he wondered at their agitation.

Then he rounded the trunk of the tree and he knew.

Harry stopped dead, feeling bile rise in his throat as he craned his neck and took in the sight before him.

He'd found Jakub.

He was nailed to the tree ten feet from the ground, arms spread wide, iron rods driven through each wrist. His feet had been crossed over each other and another rod was driven through both ankles. 

He'd been stripped naked and gutted. Harry moved closer, wanting to do anything else, but knowing that he needed to observe as much as he could. Jakub's abdomen was a gaping hole, the skin peeled back. Blood sheeted down his legs. Harry glanced at the ground at the base of the tree and felt the vomit rise in his throat again as he saw what looked like ground up organs sowed into the earth at the base of the oak like some sick fertiliser.

He looked back up. Jakub's eyes had been gouged out, bloody holes replacing them. Harry glanced quickly over the rest of his body. The only other damage seemed to be to his chest. Harry stepped closer again, peering up to try and understand what he was seeing.

There was a bloody circle in the middle of Jakub's chest, as though something had been cut away.

'Fuck,' Harry swore, ice cold realisation washing through him. It was connected. Jakub's death was connected, somehow, to the others he'd been looking into. Jakub's death was part of a broader pattern.

Harry took a few steps back again, looking up at the man in front of him.

'I'm so sorry,' he said, speaking through the horror and the anger churning inside him. He didn't even know what he was sorry for. That he hadn't figured things out earlier? He still had no idea what was even happening. Had he, somehow, led whoever did this to Jakub? He realised, as his words echoed back at him, that the trees had stopped their whispering.

He wanted to cut Jakub down, to burn or bury him. He wanted to find out who did this and rip them apart.

'I'm sorry,' was all he could say.

He cast about the clearing, sending his detection charms spiralling through the trees. They came back quickly, holding three magical traces, one of which was Harry's, the other was clustered around Jacob's body. Harry memorised the third and then checked the physical charm. Nothing was out of the ordinary. There were no signs of struggle. Harry frowned up at Jakub, wondering again at the extent of his magical power, and what it said about his attacker that there had been no signs of struggle.

His gut instinct charm hovered at his feet, nudging at him as though telling him to leave. Harry looked down at it with a frown, and then his eyes widened with shock as he made the connection as well.

'Shit,' he muttered, thinking quickly. Then, 'shit' again, as he realised he'd have to Apparate. Before he'd finished the thought, he was whirling in place, leaving the silent clearing with a crack of sound and one last look at Jakub's violated body.

He landed on the street outside the Ossuary, pulling a disillusionment into place around himself immediately and then he walked to the gates, pushing insistently at the wards with his magic. His urgency ratcheted up when he received no push back. The wards were down. He unlocked the gates with a flick of his wand and stepped through, running into the entry room and down the stairs.

He came to an abrupt stop at the foot of the stairs, and this time he couldn't hold his vomit. He leaned to the side and squeezed his eyes shut as he retched his guts up.

Daniela Musilová had been taken apart and reassembled into an obscene parody of one of the sculptures made of bones that filled the room. Harry forced himself to look at her, the acid rising in his throat again as he moved closer. 

Her torso sat in the middle of the room, her head in front of it, face set in an agonised scream that made it clear she'd been alive for her dismemberment. Her plait wrapped around her neck like an ironic noose. Her legs and arms had been cut at the joints and were shaped into a circle around her. Harry walked closer, though his skin crawled with revulsion. Every finger and toe had been removed and they were laid inside the circle of her limbs. Harry was standing over her body, his feet almost touching her forearms before the pattern made sense.

'Motherfuckers,' he swore, as the Preservation symbol jumped into stark relief. Daniela's body had been placed in the middle of it. He glanced down at her chest to see that the tattoo she'd had, the so-called Seal of Triumph, had been cut away. He hadn't noticed initially. Her whole body looked bloodless, the cuts neat and surgical.

He swore again as he thought of the circle cut away in the centre of Jakub's chest, and of the other two murders he'd catalogued. He moved back, casting swiftly around the Ossuary. The magical traces came back in exactly the same way. His, Daniela's, and one other. The same one as he'd seen under the trees.

'Mother _fucker_ ,' he swore viciously. He cast at the wards separating the crypts and the chapel from the world above. They were gone too. Shredded.

'Fuck,' he growled, then again, as he realised that not only was the chapel flooded with his magic from the day before, he'd just left it all over the woods where Jakub died and had Apparated straight from one site to another. Anyone with half a clue would be able to trace him here. 'Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.'

~

Harry Apparated straight back to his bike and then cast a dampening charm that Ron had taught him. It was illegal to hide your magical signature, but that particular charm had come in handy many times before. He felt his magic fade away, burrowing deep inside himself and tried to ignore the discomfort that caused. It was better than being dead. He had no idea if he was being tracked but if whoever had killed Jakub and Daniela returned to either site, they would find his trace all over them. From there it wouldn't be hard to find his apartment, if someone had enough resources at their disposal.

He kicked his bike into life and peeled away from the carpark, doing a mental tally of his belongings as he rode without conscious direction. Everything important, and which identified him, was in the Mokeskin pouch at his side or in the satchel he had tucked into his saddlebags. All he'd lose was a bit of money and some clothes. And his 'weed. _Fuck_.

Going back would be stupid. He tried to think as he rode, to make what he'd seen make sense to him. His memories of the bodies flashed in front of his eyes. Jakub's, blood everywhere; vivid and bright in his mind. Then it merged into James' body on the floor, so small and so much blood. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, only to see Daniela, face stretched in silent agony. He could hear James' cries again. His desperate need for help.

_Daaaaaaa!_

Harry wrenched his bike to the side of the road and leaned over, vomiting again, the acid of his empty stomach burning his throat as he heaved and retched. 

He spat and tried to force his mind back under control. Those things were not the same. He needed to separate them. He still had no proof that these deaths had anything to do with James. But that high pitched cry of need wouldn't leave his mind.

Harry reached for a bottle of whisky in the saddlebags behind him. It was barely nine in the morning, but he didn't care. He took a swig and rinsed his mouth out, then spit it, before he tilted his head back and took another deep swallow, letting the burn help to ground him in the present.

He capped the bottle and slid it back away then sat on his bike a moment longer, pushing James back down into his heart where he belonged. Harry had to use his head for this. He couldn't afford to be distracted. Distraction could kill him.

He focussed again on what he knew.

1\. Someone sent a creature to kill James.  
2\. Someone is in my mind at night.  
3\. Something is very wrong in the world. 

He pulled his bike back onto the road and thought as he travelled. His dream the night before had been strangely specific, before it had turned into a nightmare. It was almost as if someone had been rooting around in his mind, looking for the details of what he had been doing at the Ossuary.

Harry felt his gut churn again at the thought that it was possible that he was responsible for the Ossuary Keeper's death. Had whatever killed her found her through him? He had no idea what time she'd been murdered. It could have been minutes or hours before he'd arrived.

Regardless, he felt a thread of guilt wrap itself around him, and he could feel the truth of that guilt burning at him. Something was watching him at night. It had caused James' death and it had found Daniela through him, and likely Jakub too. He thought again about the way Daniela's body had been presented, as a grotesque display of the Preservation movement's values.

She'd had the sign cut from her chest, the sign that she had said was the _true_ version of the power she upheld. It had been cut away from her as though her killer wanted to deprive her of its protection, to eradicate it from her body. It was too much of a coincidence to think that Jakub's own mutilation wasn't connected.

The same magical signature had been at both sites. The same killer had killed both. Harry took a mental tally as he rode, trying to remember the dates of the other two deaths with the same chest mutilations that he was aware of. He tried to match them against the vague details he knew of the rise of the Preservation movement. He would have to do some more research to be certain, but he had a very strong feeling he'd find the dates of those deaths matched the growth of the movement in Slovakia and Austria. 

Harry chewed at the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. He knew that he was being watched by the thing that had killed James. Daniela's words had only solidified this certainty.

It seemed very likely the killer had tracked Daniela and Jakub through him, though why they had been murdered was still unclear, unless it was to remove the symbol from them, but that didn't make much sense. He filed that thought away to think further on. Regardless, it seemed obvious that the two killings were connected to both the thing that watched him and to the Preservation movement, and that he'd have a very good chance of finding out more about James if he followed that lead.

With that thought came clarity about what he needed to do next. Harry pulled his bike around and headed into the city.

~

In the end, the anniversary of James' death caught him by surprise. He'd barely slept for the past four days, and had almost lost track of day and night. When he did sleep, it was so broken by screaming faces, reaching hands and watching eyes that he woke and moved location immediately. He had no idea what the thing in his mind could get from his dreams, but he knew he didn't want it finding him when he woke.

He found himself focussing more and more on the presence, trying to remember how it looked, what it did, how it _felt_. It had been angry the last time he had slept. For the first day or so, he'd felt its amusement as he hunted and interrogated Preservation members. It was always the same questions.

_Who leads you?_

_Do you know what the symbol you fight under represents?_

_Have you killed? Have you mutilated?_

_Have you heard of a child called James Potter?_

Harry was getting very, very good at finding the bastards. And very good at getting them to tell him what he needed to know. 

The amusement of the presence in his mind had turned to anger as Harry got more and more pieces of information and wove them into a weapon he could use to avenge Daniela and Jakub. The thought of its anger made Harry bare his face in an expression that was much more feral than a grin.

None of the people he'd hunted down had given him a connection to the magical signature he'd found at the site of the two deaths, but with each person he interrogated, he found out a bit more. He knew their leader was a woman they referred to as The First. He knew every single, tiny miserable reason they all believed in the Preservation movement and the nauseating supremacy their symbol stood for. And he knew far too many of them had killed. Though none were connected directly to Daniela and Jakub's deaths. And none had even heard of his son. 

He knew he exposed himself a little more each time he caught one of them. He was leaving his magical trace all over every scene he visited, but unless he physically brutalised the people he abducted, he needed to use Legilimency and Obliviation to cover his tracks. They might know he'd been there, but they wouldn't know what he'd found.

His mind was lost in these thoughts when he sat down at a tiny café that was nothing more than a hole in the wall. He'd forgotten to eat. Again. He ignored the concerned looks the owner was giving him, which probably had a lot to do with that fact that after days without a shower and running on minimal sleep, he looked like one of the Preservation members he'd been hunting. Instead, he lit a fag and pulled the bowl of pasta closer as he cast his eye over the newspaper in front of him. It was written in Czech and he didn't want to use magic to activate his translation charm, so he just glanced at the front page image, wincing at the death toll of dozens that he could make out from the limited Czech he did know.

And then his eye caught on the date and he felt like something had grabbed him by the chest and was squeezing him so hard he would rupture. It was the sixth of November. Today was the day James had died. Today was the day everything in his life had been torn apart.

He stared at the date, feeling his blood begin to pound in his ears as he was ripped straight back into that night.

_'Harry, do you have to go? It's late. An issue with some old artefact can wait until tomorrow, can't it?' Ginny's voice was exasperated. He'd been doing this more and more, he knew. He'd had the itch eating away at him. The itch to move, to travel, to run when the thoughts inside his head got too loud._

__James, _he reminded himself._ James was the reason he stayed. James was everything. __

_'I'm sure it's just a quick job. I'll be in and out, do an assessment and make sure it's nothing too dangerous. Then I'll come home.' He was lying and they both knew it, but Ginny just rolled over and pulled her blankets up around her ears._

_Harry looked at her, feeling the familiar guilt tug at him. Then he sighed and set the monitoring charm for the link into James' room so Ginny would hear him if he needed something while Harry was out. Finally, he went down the hall. He stood over the cot for a moment, watching James sleep in the sliver of light from the half open door, then he reached down and straightened his blankets, tucking him in and stroking one thumb down his cheek._

_'I'll be back before you know it,' he whispered into the darkness, then he turned and left the room, pulling the door shut softly behind him._

_He stopped at his study and pulled his invisibility cloak over his shoulders before he left the house and entered the night, unremarked by all._

Harry gasped, and shook his head, wrenching himself back to the present as his heart pounded in his chest and he struggled for air. He staggered up from the table and back out into the street, ignoring the worried look from the café owner.

He threw his leg over his bike and started it with a roar, tyres squealing as he sped down the narrow laneway. Let a fucking Auror pick him up. He'd like to see them try. He focussed on his breathing as he rode, trying to keep himself under control, trying to just think about the in and out of it, to keep his mind blank. He knew if he let himself think of James he was going to tear himself apart.

He rode until he was out of the city, until he was making his way through one of the parks, up to a rocky outcropping overlooking the sprawl below. He parked his bike, pulled a bottle of whisky from his bags and walked slowly to the edge, sitting heavily and letting his feet hang into space as he gazed at the lights in the distance, unseeing. He thought about his breathing again. In and out. In and out.

A feeling was squeezing his lungs, making it harder and harder to keep breathing. It was like every part of the pain and grief and rage he'd suppressed over the last year was rising up inside him, bursting out from where he'd forced it and ignored it, just so that he could keep living.

He let out the air in a strangled sob and lifted a shaking hand to uncap the bottle. He took a deep swig, the craving for gillyweed rising in him viciously. The booze just made him feel angry and sick. It didn't help to calm him. Didn't stop the dreams from coming. But maybe, if he drank it quickly enough, it would help to make this bearable.

 _James_.

Harry missed his baby so badly it felt like he was missing a part of himself. Like something in his chest had been ripped away and would never be returned. There was a lightness to his arms that always felt wrong. He didn't let himself feel it— _couldn't_ let himself feel it—most of the time. But now, tonight, on the night James had been taken from him, he couldn't stop remembering what it should feel like to have his son with him.

He took another deep swallow of the whisky as he felt the pain rise inside him again, the emptiness so all-consuming he knew he could drown in it if he ever stopped moving forward. He closed his eyes, swaying slightly as he sat on the edge of the cliff. He thought about James' unsteady steps, wobbling across the bedroom floor to him. He remembered his pride at that milestone. His breathing was coming faster and faster now, heart beating hard in his chest. 

Harry lifted the bottle to his mouth again, chugging it down, trying to wash the sobs back into his chest. He hadn't cried in so long. Hadn't let himself.

Another memory came into his mind, James in the garden, lying on Harry's chest, babbling nonsense words as Harry cast a butterfly charm for him, sending them flying from the end of his wand, a riot of colours. He could still feel the heavy warmth of him, smell the jam-sticky smell of him.

Harry wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to hold in the pain, as tears began to spill down his cheeks.

He saw James again, pulling more and more food towards himself, laughing every time Harry held up a piece of fruit for him to take. He was covered in chunks of fruit and both cheeks were full, but he giggled and giggled at Harry's exaggerated looks of shock as he took each piece.

'Fuck,' Harry whispered, his voice raw. 'I miss you James.' His voice broke on the last word and he dug his fingers into his sides until they cut like claws. He was sobbing out loud now, the sounds ripped from him.

'I miss you so, so much.' The words were a wail, barely formed. Harry felt like he was tearing apart with them, unravelling and disappearing.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, to try and hold himself together. He slipped his fingers into his shirt, feeling James' heartbeat against his fingertips like it was a razor blade, cutting into him again and again. It taunted him with the false promise of life. 

Another memory came to him, James reaching for his bear, cuddling it to himself, rubbing his face against its softness.

Harry reached blindly into the Mokeskin pouch at his side, hands shaking as he fumbled with the strings. He felt around until he found what he wanted, pulling Paddington out of the bag and holding the bear up to his face. He breathed in the scent of it and tried to convince himself that what he could smell was James, the baby warmth of him. 

He pulled his knees back up to his chest and cradled the bear against himself, holding it tight as though he was holding himself together with the press of it against his body. He muffled his sobs in the bear's fur and felt his tears soak into it as he poured out his grief anew.

He sat awake through the night, holding vigil for James, for his memory if not his body, in a way that he had failed to do when he was alive. Harry sat alone on the top of a mountain, thousands of miles from anyone who knew him, and grieved his son anew.

Finally, as the sun rose on the horizon, Harry clutched the bear close to his chest and stood stiffly, heedless of the drop at his feet as he made his way back up to his bike. 

He felt hollow and exhausted when he rolled himself in his invisibility cloak and drifted into sleep.

~

He woke cramped and sore from sleeping on the rocks and hungover from the empty bottle of whisky at his side. But there was something else. It took him a moment to place it, as he rubbed gritty eyes, and swallowed dryly. His body hurt from his grief as well, but still, despite all that, he'd slept. 

He'd slept and he hadn't dreamed. There had been no nightmares, no presence in his mind. He sat up slowly, looking down to see he still had James' bear clutched in his hand. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of its head and then tucked it back into the pouch at his side. He closed his eyes and began putting his defences back in place, began tucking James back away into his heart, in the place he needed to be, safely locked away. Harry couldn't do what he needed to do—couldn't give James the vengeance he deserved—if he let his son live inside him.

When he felt like he had himself under control, he pushed into a kneeling position, jerking backwards slightly as he knelt on the cloak still wrapped around his shoulders. He looked at it, frowning in surprise. He didn't even remember putting it on. Couldn't think why he would have. He hadn't used it in—

 _In a year_ , his memory supplied and he shivered as he remembered his realisation that he'd been wearing his cloak the night James had been killed. He had no idea what whisky-soaked connections his brain had made, and why he'd wrapped himself in it before sleeping but perhaps they had been good ones if it had meant he'd slept without nightmares for the first time in longer than he can remember.

He felt something in that thought tug at him and he forced himself to concentrate on it, forced himself to push past his lingering grief and his body's pain.

He'd worn his cloak to sleep and he'd had no nightmares.

He'd worn his cloak out of the house the night James had been killed. He'd forgotten, he'd forgotten until now that he'd worn it that night.

Daniela's words rocked through his mind. _He watches you._

It was crazy. It was insane.

But then he remembered something else. It was Hermione's voice in his mind this time, the story she'd read to him a thousand times in that horrible, miserable year they'd been on the run.

_The third brother asked for something that would enable him to go forth from that place without being followed by Death._

Harry shook his head, looking down at the cloak, running the fabric of it through his fingertips as he knelt on the side of a mountain. It couldn't be. Death wasn't hunting him.

Harry sneaking out of the house in his cloak wasn't the reason James was dead. It couldn't be.

James hadn't been taken in his place. _He hadn't._

 _I would have let Death take me_. The thought entered Harry's mind clear as crystal and he knew the truth of it down to his bones. _I would have let him take me a thousand times over, before I let him take James._

His mind was still reeling, still struggling to come to terms with the possibility that this could all be starting again. Master of Death. Fuck. Hadn't he paid enough?

He tried to think rationally about it all. Was it Death he saw in his dreams? Was it _Death_ who mocked his misery with such gloating pleasure?

He shook the idea off and pulled the cloak from his shoulders, tucking it into the saddlebags of his bike. He was being ridiculous. He was being paranoid and buying into conspiracy theories. Hermione had always said the death part of the tale was symbolic. There wasn't a real figure out there called Death who gave some ancestor of his an invisibility cloak. It was nuts to think there was. 

He pushed himself to his feet slowly and looked back out over the city for a moment longer, then he looked up into the sky.

'If you did this to my son, I'll find you,' he said, not sure who he was speaking to, not sure if anyone was listening, but knowing he meant it more than he'd ever meant anything.

He threw his leg over the bike and headed back down the mountain. He had work to do.

~

He spent the next two nights free of nightmares as well, wrapped up in his cloak. He still didn't believe he was hiding from Death in it. He _couldn't_ believe that. Even the very thought of it terrified him. But he could sleep. He could sleep without seeing James dead and it had been so long since that was true. A part of him didn't care what the reason was. He just needed not to see that broken, ruined body again.

After the second night he parked his bike on a rooftop and disillusioned it so that he could hunt on foot. It meant he could wear his cloak all the time. He didn't know what was going on with it but he wasn't willing to discard a possible edge just because it didn't make sense.

His hunt became more and more successful. It was like he didn't need to hide his magic anymore. He slipped through wards like they weren't present. He thought, the first time it happened, that he must have just lucked on a group of Preservation members who were too stupid to set wards, but then he'd finished inside their minds and had checked, to see there were solid and vicious wards set around the rooms they'd been in. The wards just didn't seem to affect him.

It happened again and again. Harry tried analysing the cloak. It had never had that power before. But not long after he took it off, he got a crawling feeling on the back of his neck, like something was watching him. It made him realise just how long he'd been living with that feeling without even noticing it. He'd put the cloak straight back on and changed positions immediately.

Maybe the magic of the cloak responded to the wearer's need. No one knew much about it. Dumbledore himself had been studying it to find out more about it, all those years ago. Whatever the reason, Harry wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. The cloak had only helped him, his whole life until now. He had to assume the same was still running true.

He was doing a routine sweep of a number of Preservation gathering points, wrapped in the security of his cloak when he heard something that caught his attention.

He was leaning against a wall in the corner of a pub that had been taken over by the Preservation movement. It was his third visit to the site. The first two times he'd heard nothing more than the same supremacist bullshit that was carved into buildings across the city. Tonight, something more caught his attention. He leaned forward at the mention of a man called Dominus.

'Hunting us, apparently,' one man said with a snort as he lifted his drink to his mouth. 'We're to move in groups of two at all times, even to take a fucking piss.'

Harry's lips curved into a cold smile at his derision. Perhaps he would take that one out into the back alley for a chat later.

'I've heard weird things,' his companion said, a heavyset older man. He frowned. 'Just the other week Pavel and Matyáš came back from a raid and they were strange. They hardly remembered what they'd been doing. If it was just Pavel, I would have said he was drunk, but Matyáš has more sense than that. And anyway he likes the thrill of setting things on fire, he wouldn't drink through that.'

The first man waved his hand in dismissal. 'If some man was hunting us, we'd have seen him by now.'

Harry kept listening but they moved their talk to other topics. He leaned back into the corner and pondered what he'd just heard. The name Dominus had to be referring to him. But the only two who had used that name for him had been Jakub and Daniela. He couldn't think who else might know it, unless... _Unless the presence in your mind took that from your dreams as well._

If that was the case it was concrete proof that Daniela and Jakub's killer was within the Preservation membership, and had connected the dots on what he was doing and who he was.

Harry's attention was caught as the older man stood, waving at the bathrooms up the back of the pub. His companion made a derisive comment about whether he needed his hand held and was given a rude sign in response.

Harry ignored their banter and followed his target silently. It was the work of a moment to step in close behind him and whisper an Imperio. Another moment and he was pushing him into a cramped stall, looking into vacant eyes as he cast a Muffliato and locked the cubicle door.

Then he was in the man's mind. He barely had to think of what he wanted before the thoughts were flooding to him. Harry sifted through them, hovering in each for just a moment before discarding them. He'd had enough of the supremacist ideology for a lifetime. He pushed past the reasons this old man thought Muggles needed to be subjugated for him to be able to live a good life.

He found the whisper of the word Dominus and grasped that, pulling it towards himself, but it granted him nothing interesting, just the same sentiment from the man he'd heard it from.

_'All The First has given anyone is a name—Dominus—not even a face to go with it. Sounds like children's stories if you ask me. She's probably just trying to see which of us are brave and dedicated to the cause.'_

Harry memorised the face of the man who'd told him and then pushed the memory away. He sifted through the others, doing a final check before he prepared to withdraw and set his Obliviation in place. It was then that he noticed something, hovering around the edges, as though called by his Legilimency but not wanting to reveal itself. Harry pulled it closer.

_'I heard—' a skinny woman looked around and then leaned in to whisper. 'I heard he's blaming her for killing his kid, and that's why he's after us.'_

The words rang through Harry's mind like a curse. He could feel them resonating through every part of his body until he burned with them. There was only one way someone could link Harry's presence here to James' death and that was if they were directly involved in it. The injustice of Jakub and Daniela's death was nothing before the evidence that this woman, this Preservation leader, had taken his son from him.

Harry ripped himself out of the mind of the man in front of him and clenched his fists to stop the magic that was rising through every part of his body. He wanted to tear this building down, to bury every one of these bastards in it. He forced himself to breathe and to keep his magic contained. He bit his cheek until he tasted blood, hot and coppery, and then he let the Imperius Curse dissolve and blasted an Obliviation at the man that left him slack-jawed. 

~

In the end, finding the Preservation Leader was easier than it should have been, but Harry couldn't spare a thought for anything but the fact that he'd finally be coming face to face with her. The thought of it had consumed him since he'd raided the memory of the man in the pub. He kept hearing the words over and over in his mind. _I heard he's blaming her for killing his kid._

Harry shook himself, to bring his focus back together. He was so scattered. He couldn't make his thoughts connect properly, beyond the need to find this woman and finally take her out. And today would be his opportunity to do that. 

They were having a rally. The _Zachování's_ power had grown to the level where they were holding a public rally for their cause. Harry had it confirmed by multiple sources. It wasn't in some back alley or under the cover of dark. It was in one of the most populated tourist sites of the city and it was happening in the middle of the day.

Harry pushed his way through the crowd. It was closely packed and he had to hold his invisibility cloak tightly around him. The people he shoved looked accusingly at each other and minor scuffles broke out in his wake. Harry ignored them. He only had eyes for one person—the woman standing on the thin stone edge above the entry arch of the Saint Vitus Cathedral. 

He'd activated every one of his runes before he entered the huge stone square, and now he pushed his magic outwards. He needed to know. He needed to make sure that this woman's signature matched the one he'd found at the scene of both murders. He cast at her as he strode forward, already knowing what he would find. The verification came back true, a pulsing wrongness, a sense of something corrupt. 

Harry pulled his cloak off his head and pushed it back over his shoulders. 

Over the heads of the hundreds gathered before her, The First turned and looked down to meet his eyes. There was something knowing in her gaze. Something gloating about seeing him at last. Harry glared back up at her, challenging her with every fibre of his being.

She had taken James from him. He had no idea why, but he would, finally, be able to avenge his son's death.

The First continued to speak to the crowd, but somehow, Harry knew she was speaking to him now. She knew he'd been the one hunting her.

'Friends,' her voice boomed out over the square. 'Does the lion cower before the ants at his feet?'

'NO,' roared the crowd back at her as one. Harry looked up at her, eyes narrowed, trying to figure out what message she was sending him. He had trouble concentrating over the roar in his blood, the pulsing need to attack, to kill her before this chance disappeared. He'd spent almost a year hunting this woman who had taken his child. He couldn't think of anything beyond that.

'Does the parent let the children rule the house?'

'NO,' came the resounding response from the crowd again.

A part of Harry, the part of him that took time to sit and examine a curse from all angles before acting, sat in the back of his mind, warning him that he needed to wait, that now was not the time. If he followed her, he could find out more, could get her alone, could force the answers from her—the reason James had been killed.

That part was drowned by the fury rushing through every part of his body.

'You have seen the promised world. The world without war, without conflict, without the resources of the earth being consumed by hungry hordes, always starving for more.'

She held her hand out, looking directly down at Harry. 'Together we can build that world. Magic can help us to save the Muggles from themselves. Magic can put us in control, put us in the position of triumph, where we should be.' She winked at him as she said the word triumph, and Harry remembered Daniela's body, dismembered and arranged. He remembered the sacred symbol cut from her chest.

He was disgusted at her words, at the lies, at the pain and cruelty hiding underneath them. He grit his teeth and pushed forward again.

'Together, friends,' The First boomed looking back up and gesturing across the crowd, including everyone in her words, 'Together we can heal the wrong the Muggles have done to this world! Together we can protect our children! We can stop our children from suffering and dying.'

Harry stiffened at the word 'children' and glared up at her, feeling anger rise up in his throat until he was nearly choking on it. The fucking bitch was taunting him. He knew she was.

The thought was confirmed a moment later when she looked back down at Harry and smiled, a wide, knowing smile. 'I know every one of us would do whatever we had to, to protect our babies'

Harry felt his fury ignite into a white hot inferno at those words, at the mockery in her face. At knowing that it had been because of her—this woman he didn't even know, who had decided to take everything from him.

He pushed the last few metres to the edge of the crowd and pointed his wand up at the woman above him. He was speaking the words before he'd stopped moving.

The green curse light slashed from the end of his wand, and it was only in the second before it hit her, when her lips curled up into a cruel, satisfied smile, that Harry realised she'd baited him into this. He felt the world stand still as the horrified understanding flooded through him. The wards. The conversations. The mention of his name and the reference to James. Even the fucking rally. 

Everything he'd done over the past week had been manipulated by the woman above him to lead him to exactly this point. He felt icy certainty burn through him, taking away the fevered rage of the last few days. It was only as it lifted that he realised he'd been compelled. The single-minded purpose that had led him here had been embedded in the memory he'd stolen at the pub. It had been a trap.

Then his Avada Kedavra hit and the world slammed back into motion. Harry watched as she was thrown back against the building. A spike erupted from her chest in a bloody shower as she was forced onto the decorative spires.

But Harry's attention was only captured by that for a moment. What came next sent a horrified sense of foreboding rushing through every part of him.

Her body rippled and shook as a form pushed itself out, growing as it rushed forward. Harry couldn't make out the blur of movement at first, and then when he did, he flinched back, an instinctive terror filling him.

A white horse with blood-red eyes had erupted from her body, insubstantial at first and then solidifying as it galloped forward. On its back was a demonic-looking rider, with a crown on its head and a bow in its hand. It wrenched at the reins, sending the horse rearing into the sky, screaming a ringing challenge. 

Harry felt the power of that cry echo through his bones. It surged through him, urging him to fight, to overpower, to dominate and take his place as king. He could feel the way the call hit the crowd, the sound of the cries around him turning immediately, becoming dark and vicious.

The horse's rider fixed cold, eternal eyes on Harry and gave him that same cruel, satisfied smile. He could see the call to kill and to conquer layered over every element of the rider's body. It was dressed in a darkly burnished suit of armour, spiked and dangerous and around it hung a miasma of violence.

 _What the fuck have I done?_ Harry thought, mind numb as he watched the rider rip the head of the horse around, forcing it to wheel into the sky. The speed it moved with was terrifying. In seconds he could barely make it out as it streaked away over the city.

His attention was pulled back down as the angry crowd all around him began to shout and grab at him. No one seemed to have seen the spectral rider, instead they were turning on Harry, screaming their rage at him over the brutal death above their heads.

He felt as though he were moving in slow motion, while his mind raced at lightning speed, trying to process what he had just seen, trying to understand the awful majesty of it, the power that had radiated from it like a sun.

A fist slammed into his cheek, snapping his head back and forcing Harry back into the present. He gathered his power and forced it out from himself with an 'Expulso' which sent everyone touching him staggering back ten feet.

He glanced back up once more, frantically searching the empty sky. Then he wheeled into a desperate Apparition, the face of the pale rider bright in his mind.

~

Halfway across the world, Draco Malfoy opened his eyes and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO????
> 
> WHAT DO YOU THINK :D
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it and I have stacks of notes and plans for the next chapter churning away, so hope to get it to you soon :D  
> Stay well  
> Q


	3. War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very intense time to be writing this story, so I hope you will forgive me the gap between posting.
> 
> I want to flag two updates I've made to the tags, as neither was in the story for chapter 1. If either is a trigger for you, I apologise for not being able to state them in the beginning.
> 
> The first tag is for riots. I thought really hard about how I wanted to portray this chapter and some of the key points in it, in light of current world events. The first thing I want to say is that I support the Black Lives Matter movement, and being from Australia, I recognize that I live on land that was stolen from its Traditional Owners. Genocide and dispossession continue today in Australia in the form of racism and higher incarceration and mortality rates for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people. Anger and protest in response to these facts is more than justified.
> 
> In this chapter, magical people attack and kill Muggles in the name of supremacy and a misguided need to strike first. Muggles are deceived into killing people with magic in order to add fuel to the violence and make it a two way confrontation - an eye for an eye. My intent in portraying this violence is not to make a judgement or commentary on the need for, and value of revolutionary violence. This is a different sort of story, where violence is provoked to create death alone. Because of that, I have condemned the actions of the rioters throughout. I hope the portrayal of the riots in this chapter is not offensive to anyone, but welcome constructive conversation in the comments below, or on Tumblr (quicksilvermaid).
> 
> The second tag I have added is one for non con. I didn't expect this scene when I started writing, or would have flagged it. I am very happy to send people the chapter without this scene, but also want to flag that the aftermath and discussions of the non con scene will be explored further during chapter 4. I have not written this scene gratuitously, and I hope readers will not be disappointed by its addition. I felt that the story needed it, as I got to that point.
> 
> Now, a huge thank you my amazing crew of betas who I dumped a 33 (now 38k)K chapter on (sorry!) and who picked up an embarrassing number of typos, whipped my commas into shape and asked me all sorts of things that expanded this into a much better chapter <3  
> Thank you to Tackytiger, Theonsfavouritetoy, Baatneil, Malenkayacherpakha, Static_abyss and DoubleAppled.
> 
> Yes, I am that needy.
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

Harry staggered as he landed on the roof. He pulled the Invisibility Cloak up over his head and tried to breathe. Everything around him shimmered with that otherworldly look the cloak created. His mind was whirling and he felt like he wanted to vomit. He'd just _killed_ someone. _Fuck_. He could still see the bloody spire erupting from her chest—still feel the hate in himself, building towards the death he'd shot from the end of his wand. Fuck. _What had he done?_

He shook his head, fighting off the nausea, fighting to take a breath. She'd killed James. He'd been avenging his son. He had to do it. He repeated that to himself. He'd _had_ to.

His face ached and he could feel pain radiating from several spots on his body where people had hit or kicked him before he'd managed to push them back. He thought of the surging fury of the crowd, the spectral creature he'd seen burst into life. _What the fuck had it been?_

Harry saw the woman's dead eyes again. He felt as though his rage and hate were draining away the longer he stood there; as though some outside force was withdrawing them from his mind. He'd been so sure, _so sure_ he was doing the right thing.

He moved to the edge of the flat roof where he'd been storing his bike and looked in the direction of the city. He couldn't see anything from here. The place he'd come from was a mile away, but he thought maybe he could hear faint voices, the roar of a crowd.

He pictured again, the thing that had erupted into life when he'd killed the woman. He could still feel its eyes burning into him, cold and full of mockery. He'd fucked up. He had no idea what he'd done, but he knew he'd fucked up. Big time.

Harry closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. It would be okay. Whatever it was had gone. He slowly felt himself begin to calm.

He spent the rest of the day sitting on the rooftop, looking back towards the square, writing sporadic notes of things he remembered from that afternoon, and then tracking back further, over the past week. It was soothing, to go back to his routine of tracing and recording details, looking for the links between them. 

His memory was hazy, disjointed, as though his thoughts hadn't been completely his own. It reinforced the conclusion he'd come to in the square, immediately after he'd thrown the killing curse, that something had been influencing him.

He remembered again, the light from the spell; the _Avada Kedavra_ that he had cast. The death that he had wished into life. He shivered and pulled the cloak more tightly around himself. He felt like he was always cold, now. 

When night had fallen and his stomach cramped with hunger, Harry pushed back to his feet and rummaged in the bags strapped to his bike until he found a handful of jerky. He re-cast the disillusionment charm and then lay down beside the gleaming machine, making sure the cloak was covering every part of him. His sleep, when it came, was fitful.

~

Harry turned, the sound ringing in his ears. It was dark, but he could hear the cries. All he could hear were the cries. He turned again, reaching out, trying to find him. _James! Where was James?_

The sound increased in volume, became shriller. It was screams he could hear. Screams getting louder and louder.

Harry jerked awake, pulling his cloak against himself instinctively as he looked out into the night. The darkness was ripped open as he watched, a fireball blooming in the sky. He could hear the screams again, rising around him. He stood, ignoring his stiffness and aches, and moved to the edge of the roof, looking down at the scene below. 

He sucked in a breath at the chaos swirling in the street. There were people rushing everywhere. Some were fleeing but many more were chasing, screaming in glee and rage. His eyes darted from scene to scene as he tried to take in the hundreds of people below him, moving back and forth like a storm-tossed sea. He heard glass shatter as windows were smashed by wands and bats.

The streets lit up again and Harry jerked his head to see figures, arms raised, flames pouring from their wands in great torrents. He looked around, trying to make sense of it, and then cast his gaze wider, looking out over the buildings. He could see fireballs flare in a dozen spots around the city, ballooning into life like poisonous mushrooms. He shook his head, trying to wake himself up—trying to make sense of it. And then he saw the Preservation symbol curl into the sky, drawing the flames into it until it lit up the night.

Everything clicked into place in his mind. The crowd. The figure on the horse. The fury that had poured into him on seeing it, the sense of righteous power that had filled him. This was happening because he'd killed that woman. He'd released the demon rider that was inside her. The horseman was influencing these people, making them crazy. Harry could feel the rightness of that thought.

 _Horseman_. That thought echoed strangely in his mind and he tried to chase it, to catch hold of it. It was so hard to concentrate, so hard to think, with the destruction playing out in front of him. 

_This is my fault_. The thought hit him with a certainty he couldn't shake. He looked back down over the crowd, despair rising in him as he saw someone fall, engulfed by flames. She rolled, screaming and smacking at her clothes, but within moments the flames overcame her and she stilled and fell quiet. Then he saw it happen again, and again, and realised the Preservation members below were targeting people with the fire now. These people were dying because of him. It wasn't from his wand, this time, but it was no less his fault.

He couldn't watch this. He couldn't let it happen. 

Harry pulled his wand from his forearm holster and pointed it at the crowd below. He fired _Stupefy_ after _Stupefy_ , watching as the attackers crumpled in the street. He couldn't bring himself to use anything more violent than that. Not now. Not so soon after he'd made the choice to bring death. Or been deluded into thinking he should. Had the woman _wanted_ him to kill her? Had she planted that need in his head? That was mad. Everything was still so mixed up inside his mind. 

Harry threw shield charms as well, trying to wrap them around those who were running. It made a difference for those he touched, but there were so many of them, moving so quickly, and it was only a minute or two before the attackers noticed the jets of red light raining down from above and the way their flames and curses were being turned away. One by one, heads turned to his location and then Harry was forced to throw up a shield around himself as a fireball came hurtling back up at him. It burst against his shield, curling back on itself. 

At the sign someone _was_ up on the roof, even if those on the street couldn't see him, more fireballs were aimed at him, and then curses as well. Harry felt the impact on his shield and reached down to touch his strength rune quickly. He felt it warm to life as it released the power he'd stored in it and he drew on it to thicken his own protection. He could hold out against the assault. Every curse the bastards below threw at him was one they weren't directing at the people trying to escape them.

Then he flinched as a flash of green light sliced through his shield like it wasn't there. It went wide, off to his right, and he realised they were throwing AKs now. If he hadn't been wearing the Invisibility Cloak, he'd probably be dead. The people below seemed to have the same idea. The fireballs stopped abruptly and Harry dropped to the ground, rolling as the light of a dozen killing curses speared through the darkness above him. He shivered at the speed at which the people below had changed tactics. It almost felt as though something was directing them. Linking them together.

His mind raced as he took cover behind the edge of the roofline. He had to figure out what to do next. He couldn't leave those people in the street below. The building shuddered and Harry realised it had just been hit by a _Bombarda_. Then it shook again and again. He could feel the rooftop below him begin to tilt and he pushed into a crouch, making a run for his bike.

Green light shot over his head again, but those below couldn't get the right angle as he moved further back onto the roof. He only hoped they wouldn't think to Apparate up here with him. 

As though his thought had brought the action to life, there was a crack behind him and then another and another. Harry gripped the cloak more tightly around himself and threw up a nonverbal shield charm behind himself. Three more steps and he was at the bike. He realised his mistake a second too late as he touched it, causing the _Disillusionment_ charm to fall away.

There was a yell of discovery and then death curses were flashing towards him. Harry cast a single despairing glance at his bike before he slashed his wand into a severing charm. He grabbed his rucksack as it fell away and then whirled into a desperate Apparition. The last thing he saw as he disappeared from the rooftop, was the green light of a killing curse headed straight for the place he stood.

~

Harry landed on his knees and leaned forward, dropping his rucksack to the ground as he panted and gasped in an attempt to bring his heart rate back to normal. Adrenaline flooded through him and his back crawled at the thought of what he'd just escaped. He allowed himself one miserable, despairing thought for his bike. _Sirius'_ bike. Then he locked that grief away with all the rest and stood.

He repaired the strap of his rucksack and slipped it over his shoulder, adjusting it so it sat under the cloak, which he pulled more securely around himself. He let the shimmery unreality of the world through the cloak calm him slightly. He felt safe under it. Isolated, as though he stood apart from the world. 

A vivid image of people screaming, running, burning, flashed into Harry's mind and he flinched away from it. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment. He had to calm himself. He had to forget about what had happened, just for a moment. Just until he was safe. He took in another deep breath and then opened his eyes and looked around.

He was in Berlin, on the corner near where he'd stayed while he was here researching Erklings. He cast a quick _Tempus_ and was unsurprised to see it was three in the morning. He made his way back to the hostel he'd stayed in six months earlier. It was a Muggle place and it was open twenty-four hours. He could wait there for the sun to rise, while he figured out what to do next.

He didn't even register that he'd left the cloak on as he walked into the building until the overnight clerk looked over with a frown as the automatic door opened and closed. Harry froze, but the man didn't come to investigate. Instead he turned back to the TV he was watching. Harry's eye was caught by the scenes on it and he stepped closer, only then realising that there were half a dozen people in the front bar, which doubled as the reception, and they were all watching the large screen over the fireplace.

Harry cast a translation charm with his wand, which he realised, belatedly, he was still holding, and then tucked it away. The sound of the newsreader's voice jumped into life.

'—spreading across Europe. We have reports of widespread destruction in at least fifteen cities across four different countries. Mia joins us now from Prague, where the escalation of the violence seems to have originated late yesterday. Mia, what can you tell us?'

'Thank you, Elias. I've spoken to a number of those fleeing the turmoil which is overtaking the city and what they have to say is disturbing. They're reporting the attackers are using flamethrowers and laser guns, and say there has been indiscriminate killing. Police retaliation has been ineffective and the violence seems to be widespread.'

Harry watched the images across the screen as the woman continued to talk. He recognised pictures from the rally at Saint Vitus Cathedral earlier that day. He watched as the crowd surged and the Muggle reporter zoomed in on The First as she stood on the parapet of the Cathedral, speaking down to the crowd. The image turned to static and became jerky, and Harry wondered if the magic he had used was interfering with the camera. But he could see what was happening clearly enough. 

Guilt flooded through him again as he saw the green flash of light, then the footage cut before the moment Harry's curse forced her backwards onto the spire. He watched in his mind's eye as the spike erupted from her body and then the words of the news report filtered back through. He felt sick over it. Knowing he had _done it_. But she'd killed James. Those people had _said_ she had. He'd been avenging his son. Hadn't he?

'Authorities have identified the deceased as Eliška Nepovím, a well known local figure who had been involved in a number of peace-building projects promoting cross-regional security. It is unknown why she rose to become the figurehead of the Preservation movement. Her killer is also unknown at this moment. What is clear is that her death and the way she was killed has sparked anger among followers of the Preservation movement across a range of countries.'

'Indeed, Mia. Stay safe,' came the voice of the original reporter. He turned back to the viewers. 'And now we will cut to our French correspondent, Elise, who brings similar tidings. Elise, what is the situation in Paris at present?'

'Thank you, Elias,' the next reporter began and Harry could see that the streets behind her were surging with people. This was his fault. All of this death and destruction was his fault. He had let something loose, something awful and now people were dying for it.

He watched the images travel across the screen, burning and terror and death over and over again. The images were inconsistent, flickering and filled with static. Harry wondered how long it would be, before the Statute of Secrecy was torn to pieces. The Muggles may not be able to capture the magic on their cameras properly, but it couldn't be long before they realised that what they were being attacked with were not ordinary weapons.

Harry didn't think there was anything the international Auror forces could do at this point. As he thought that, the television image changed to show a map of Europe, with small icons of fires showing the locations where violence had been reported. As he watched, another half-dozen sites were added to the map.

This was his fault. The continent had been a powder keg and he had directed an _Incendio_ at it.

 _You rushed in without thinking,_ came a cold, insidious voice in his mind. _Like you always do. Sirius died because you couldn't stop and think._

'Shut up,' Harry muttered, closing his eyes and squeezing his hands against his head.

 _James died because you weren't there for him when he needed you,_ the voice continued, mercilessly.

'Shut up,' Harry said again, pulling at his hair. 'Shut up, shut up.'

 _You killed a woman. And now look at all these people. Dying because of_ you.

'SHUT UP,' Harry shouted, and then jerked his head up to see seven pairs of eyes spinning to look in his direction, looking for the source of the yell.

He cursed and pulled the cloak close to himself as he whirled into Apparition.

When he landed this time, he was in Brussels, in the alley near a dingy little hotel he'd spent a few nights in, what felt like an eternity ago. He made his way there as though in a dream, the images he'd seen flashing through his mind over and over again. Her name had been Eliška Nepovím. She had been a good woman. He'd killed her. Did she have a family? Children? The thought made him want to cry.

 _She killed James._ He drew that thought to himself like a mantra, like a shield. _She killed James. She killed James._ He didn't know if it was working.

He tried to think instead of the figure on the horse. He couldn't make sense of it. Nothing made sense. What had that thing inside her been? Was that why she had whipped up the Preservation movement? Had it been controlling her?

Harry thought back again to the emotions he'd felt radiating from the demon rider. He'd felt such a clear, strong sense of his own power and superiority as it had galloped above the crowd. He'd felt as though the world was his and he should be able to take anything he wanted from it. Was that what every single person out there storming the streets right now was feeling? Had it somehow gotten into their minds? Infected them? Was that what it had done to Eliška? Had he killed her for something that was not her fault? He couldn't deal with that thought so he pushed it out of his mind.

Harry cast an _Alohomora_ and pushed open the door to the hotel lobby, moving to a corner and locking the door behind himself. He was glad to see there was no telly in this one. The foyer was empty, the front desk unattended, and Harry took a seat on one of the couches. He cast a Notice-Me-Not and then a warming charm, after a moment. He was so bloody cold.

Tucking the cloak around himself more securely, he pulled his rucksack open and glanced inside, relying on the Notice-Me-Not to cover any flashes of his body which his movements revealed. The bag held his field first aid kit, a change of clothes and some basic rations. He pulled out a pack of smokes and lit one up, moving the cowl of the cloak away from his face as he considered the bag. He'd lost everything else. Even his bike. He winced again at the pain of that loss. It was the only thing he'd had left that had belonged to Sirius. Well, the only thing Sirius had cared about. Grimmauld Place didn't count. He was pretty sure considering a place to be a mouldy death-trap of racism didn't count as caring.

Harry reached down to the Mokeskin pouch at his hip, touching it to reassure himself it was still there. The pouch contained the things he couldn't afford to lose. He let his smoke dangle from his lips and widened the neck of the pouch to look inside, checking each of the bundles of research to make sure they were still there. His fingers brushed over the spine of a book and he pulled it out, tracing his fingers over the letters on the cover.

_The Tales of Beedle the Bard_

He could see the edge of a photo inside it. He reached up to take the cigarette from his mouth, drawing in a lungful of the smoke before he did, and then he brought a knee up, resting his chin on it as he opened the book and looked down at the image inside.

It was the one he'd taken from the house before he left. The one of James. Harry held it and watched as James cackled in laughter, almost tipping himself off the side of the couch. A moment later Harry's head appeared, as he took off the Invisibility Cloak. James was obscured for a moment and then Harry disappeared again and James returned. His face was startled before he burst back into happy laughter.

Harry felt pain crack through his chest at the sight of it, at the joy in it. At his own stupidity for thinking he would ever be allowed to be happy.

He was about to put the image back in the book and tuck it away when his eye caught on the title of the chapter it had opened to.

_The Tale of the Three Brothers_

Harry felt his skin crawl as he looked at the drawing of a hooded figure on the title page, and his earlier thoughts about the connection between the figure in his dreams, Death, his cloak, and what Daniela had told him about being a Dominus—a Master of Death—came rushing back into his mind. He took another drag on his cigarette before he vanished it, concentrating on what was in front of him. It felt good to focus, to turn off all the thoughts and fears and guesses and just try to deal with the puzzle in front of him.

He skimmed through the story, pulling out a pen as he did, and underlining and circling key words, scribbling notes in the margin. Doing it reminded him of Hermione for a moment, doing the same, sitting up night after night, poring over this book in a cold and lonely tent, as though she could force it to give her answers with the strength of her quill.

The thought of Hermione gave him that same sense of sick guilt it always did, so he put it aside as well and focused on what he was reading.

 _Three brothers blocked by hooded figure._ He underlined the words 'hooded figure' twice.

_Death's prizes: wand—most powerful in existence; stone to bring back the dead; Death's Cloak of Invisibility_

Harry paused as he underlined those things, thinking back to what he knew, thinking back to his interactions with each. He ran his fingers over the fabric of the Invisibility Cloak, letting its smooth texture soothe him. It was mad to think this was Death's actual cloak, or that Death was a real figure at all. Hermione had debunked all of this years ago. He remembered her frustrated speech still, after he'd asked her the same question for the fiftieth time about why they couldn't chase the Hallows.

'It's personification, Harry. People try to give character to things they don't understand or things they fear. Death is simply something that happens naturally at the end of life. It's not some spirit looming over us all cutting threads and deciding when it's time for people to go.'

'How do you explain the cloak, the wand, and the stone then?' Harry had challenged. 'We know the cloak is real.'

'Of course the _things_ are real,' Hermione said, her tone faintly exasperated. 'Someone would have made them. And then other people couldn't understand how it was done, or couldn't replicate it or were afraid of it, so they made up stories about what or how. It's happened since the dawn of time. It's why Muggles have religion and all manner of other things. We need to stop worrying about the _why_ of the Hallows and think about whether we need the _what_ of them to be able to find these blasted Horcruxes.'

Harry looked back at the words he'd underlined. Cloak, wand, stone. He knew where the wand was; back in Dumbledore's grave, where it belonged. It couldn't possibly be linked to all of this, could it? He turned his attention back to the story. He knew what happened to the brother with the wand. He was killed for it. And then others killed for it over and over again through history. Harry frowned at the idea, at the possibility that he might need to bring that trouble back into his life.

He continued reading until he got to the part about the second brother.

_—he took out the stone that had the power to recall the dead and turned it thrice in his hand._

The Resurrection Stone. Harry thought again of the people he'd seen die in the streets a few hours earlier. The woman he'd _killed_ before that. All the people he hadn't been able to save, starting with his parents.

He thought of James. _James_ , and the idea that he might see him again. Hold him again. For a moment he could almost feel the weight of his baby in his arms, hear the soft babble of his words. _Da da da da_. Then he shook his head, forcing the idea away.

He knew what happened to the second brother. He killed himself over the shadow of the woman he'd brought back. The woman who didn't belong in the world of the living. Harry remembered his parents, and Sirius and Lupin, joining him on his walk into the forest, not dead and not alive. He couldn't use the stone. It was madness to think he could.

That left the cloak.

_Though Death searched for the third brother for many years, he was never able to find him._

Harry rubbed his fingers over the fabric of his cloak again, wondering. His dreams had changed when he started wearing it. The hooded figures had disappeared. His nightmares were ordinary again. Was he hiding from Death, in this cloak, or had his imagination just conjured the entire thing? Was it all just happening inside his mind as some twisted way to make sense of James' death?

That rationalisation sounded like Hermione again and Harry pushed it away with frustration. He was so tired. It was a struggle to make his thoughts connect.

What did any of this have to do with the figure on the horse? Were they even connected? The only thing he had to go on was the words of the DeathKeeper.

_Death is wrapped all around you._

_The Horsemen are riding._

Harry shook his head and closed the book, taking one last look at James' laughing eyes before slipping the photo back inside it. 

He was going round and round in circles. He needed to talk to someone who knew more about all of this than he did.

~

It cost him fifty Galleons to make the international Floo call from a pub in the Wizarding district later that day. He pushed the cloak off his head, but left it covering his body. He felt safer that way. He stuck his head into the green flames and called out, crossing his fingers that she would be home. When the chime of the call being accepted came, he breathed a sigh of relief.

'Hello, Harry,' Luna said, blinking slowly at him. 'How nice to see you. Are you in some sort of trouble?'

Harry blinked back at her, nonplussed. He'd forgotten what Luna could be like.

'No,' he began and then stopped. 'Well yes, but—look I was hoping I could get in touch with your father, actually.'

Luna blinked at him again. 'I'm sorry, Harry. He chose to cross over. I think it was for the best, really. There's a lot we don't know about the other side and Father was very interested to find out more.'

Harry paused, trying to digest what he'd just heard. Did Luna mean—

'Sorry,' he said, shaking his head slightly. 'Do you mean... Did your father _die_?

'Oh yes,' Luna said, a slight frown on her face. 'He was murdered. It was almost six months ago.'

Harry felt those words rock through him, linking his suspicions more firmly together.

'Can I come through, Luna? I'd like to talk to you about a few things.'

'Yes,' she said. 'Of course. You have wonderful timing, Harry. They're closing the international Floos in a few more hours.'

'What?' Harry said, the news flooring him. 'Why?'

'Because of the murders, of course. The Ministry is saying it's to stop the Muggles who have been killing Wizards from coming across to us here, but the Muggles don't tend to travel by Floo, do they? And anyway, I think they're discounting how the flames can spread.'

'What flames?' Harry asked, confused again. 'Wait, Muggles killing Wizards?'

'The flames of Conquest,' Luna said, in answer to his first question. She spoke as though the fact was self-evident. 

Harry felt the word hit him like a punch. Daniela had spoken of Conquest—the perversion of Triumph. What the fuck was going on?

'I'm coming through,' he said. 'Give me a minute to pay for international travel and I'll be over.'

'That will be lovely,' Luna said, beginning to stand. 'It's been years since you visited. I'll put tea on.'

Harry stepped out of the Floo and into Luna's kitchen a few minutes later, wincing at the further depletion of his steadily lowering funds. But he couldn't Apparate across the ocean and without his bike, the Portkey would have cost him just as much. _And would have put him on a list that would have eventually told Ron he was back in the country_ , he thought to himself.

He straightened up to see Luna looking around with interest.

'Are you invisible now, Harry?' she asked. 

Harry realised he'd pulled his cloak back up over his head as a matter of habit and he reached up to lower the hood, hesitating a moment before he pushed it back over his shoulders as well. He winced at the sensation of being vulnerable—exposed—as his whole body became visible.

'Sorry,' he said, as he gave her a quick smile, which he didn't think reached his eyes. 'Force of habit.'

'Have you been hiding a lot?' she asked, sitting at the small table and looking at him with curiosity.

'You could say that,' he said, crossing to the table and sitting opposite her, glad she hadn't made any move to stand and embrace him.

She poured him a cup of tea and he took a moment to look around her kitchen. It was small and bright, cluttered with all manner of books and papers as well as sculptures and trinkets. It was a homey sort of chaos that reminded him, with a pang, of the Burrow.

'How did your father die?' he asked as he lifted his cup, wrapping his hands around it.

Luna took a sip of her own tea and closed her eyes for a moment. 

'The Aurors said it was an accident,' she said when she opened them. Harry met her gaze and deep within it he saw an echo of his own certainty, that something was wrong in the world and only he knew what it was.

'You don't agree?' he asked. It wasn't really a question.

'He was collecting Brumbling Bizzingtons when he was stung to death. I checked afterwards, and he was wearing his yellow-spotted wellingtons. They never would have stung him if he was wearing those. He's worked with that colony my whole life.'

Harry looked at her, unsure what to think about her statement. 

'Was there anything else unusual about his death?' he asked. For a moment he considered using Legilimency on her, entering her mind and taking the memories the same way he had with so many others. Then he pushed that thought away, faintly ashamed of himself. She was his friend. Or had been.

'His necklace was missing,' Luna said, taking another sip of tea. 'He never took it off. The Aurors thought it may have burned its way onto his body because the skin on his chest had blistered away, but the chain would still have been there. I don't think they wanted to listen to me. They didn't take any notes about the things I told them.'

Harry stilled at her description of the skin on her father's chest being damaged. It was the same, he knew it was. Xenophilius Lovegood had been killed because he had some connection to the Seal of Triumph—the sigil Daniela had had tattooed onto her chest. Then another thought came to him, and he looked back at Luna.

'Before—in the Floo. What did you say? About Conquest?'

Luna tilted her head to one side, considering him. 'Do you see them too?'

'See who?' Harry asked, a tendril of fear curling through him.

'The Horsemen,' Luna said simply, as though the answer were obvious.

Harry's heart began to thud in his chest, hard and fast. He put his cup of tea down as his hand started to tremble and reached into his pockets to pull out his smokes, lighting one up. He'd kill for some Gillyweed. He hadn't stopped moving for long enough to stock back up. The cigarettes took the edge off his anxiety a little, but they didn't calm him down the way the Gillyweed did.

'It's real?' he said, his voice almost a whisper as he thought back to the spectral demon that had burst from the body of the woman on the spire. It wasn't until he said it out loud that he realised how much he had been worried that he was going insane, was creating some reality inside his own mind to try and explain what was going on around him. To prove to himself that his son's death—all the death that was now occurring—was not his fault.

' _They're_ real,' Luna said, emphasising the word. 

'Wait,' Harry said, smoothing one hand out on the table to try and stop it trembling. He took another deep drag on his smoke. He wanted to pull the cloak back over his shoulders, wrap its comfort around himself. 'How many of them are there?'

Luna opened her mouth, but Harry knew the answer before she spoke.

'Four.'

Her confirmation sent his mind reeling, connections beginning to form faster than thought, as the threads of his research and the images from his dreams began to come together, finally forming into a picture he could understand.

'There are four of them. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the Muggles call them.'

'What do we call them?' Harry asked quietly.

'Victorum, Bellum, Jajunium, and Mortem.' The words sounded heavy on her tongue, laced with pain and fear, heavy with power.

'Can they be stopped?' Harry asked, feeling as he did so like he'd been moving towards this moment—this choice—for months now. 

Luna watched him for a long, unblinking moment before she spoke again. 'This does not have to be your fight, Harry. You've vanquished one great evil. There are others in the world who can fight this one.'

Harry tried to think of all the reasons why he couldn't walk away from this. In the end, it came down to just one. If they were the reason James was gone, he needed to know _why_.

'I dream of hooded figures,' he said, and Luna watched him silently. He took another pull on his cigarette before vanishing it. 'Sometimes there are four, and sometimes just one. They... they always hold the dead body of my son. They taunt me with his death. They want me to know that they're the ones who took him from me. And—' he hesitated, not sure he should say this part.

'I killed one of them... or released it, maybe. I think I made things worse.'

Luna's face was unreadable in response to his words and Harry fought the urge to fidget under her gaze. She wouldn't turn him away. She couldn't. It was clear she knew much more than he did about what was going on in the world, and he needed what she knew. Despite his reservations, he knew he'd take the knowledge from her, if he had to.

'There's someone you need to meet,' Luna said at last. 'If you finish your tea quickly, we can Floo there before they close the borders.'

She stood and left the kitchen. Harry gulped down his tea and then stood and paced as he waited. Just when he was about to go after her, and see what was taking her so long, she came back with a small bag slung over her shoulder. 

'What did you mean, before, about Wizards being killed?' Harry asked, as she walked into the room. He'd realised while she was gone that she hadn't answered his question.

'Oh,' Luna said, blinking, 'haven't you heard? It's been all over the papers this past week. Twenty-eight Wizards and Witches have been killed across Europe. Some of them with _guns_.' Luna frowned. 'It's horrible news. No one knows why it's happened.'

Harry frowned, trying to make sense of it. 'It was Muggles, who killed them?'

Luna nodded, turning to the Floo to pick up some powder. 'Yes, it's very sad. Every one of them, caught by surprise. None of them even defended themselves.'

Harry tried to digest that news. First, the Preservation movement was whipping people with magic up into a supremacist fear about the need to rule Muggles before they became too much of a danger. Now Muggles were somehow locating and killing Wizards and Witches. It had to be connected. It was too neat a pattern—something to hold up to those who were against violence. _See, they will get us if we don't act first._

'You can put the cloak back on, if you prefer,' Luna said, interrupting Harry's spiralling thoughts. 'I think I would be hiding too, if the Horsemen were inside my dreams.'

Harry's hands were moving before she'd even finished speaking and he sighed in relief as the familiar distortion to his vision fell into place and the cloak enveloped him once more. He let his shoulders uncurl slightly.

'You'll need to say "The Oratory,"' Luna said. 'We need to go to Ireland.' With that, she opened a small jar of Floo powder and threw a pinch into the fire. The flames flared bright, and with a word, she stepped in and whirled away.

Harry stepped up and grabbed a pinch for himself. He paused for just a moment, knowing this was his chance to get out of it, if he wanted to. His chance to leave all of this behind, rather than getting deeper into it than he already was.

But he knew there was no real choice. He had to know what had happened to his son. He threw his powder into the flames and closed his eyes as he stepped through.

When he stepped out of the Floo, he was in a classy looking restaurant. It had high arched ceilings and the walls were stone, lit up with purple lights. It was clearly magical, as barely anyone was watching Luna, despite the fact that she was wearing a bright yellow overcoat and a very purple dress and had just stepped out of nowhere.

Harry shook off those thoughts and looked to Luna for some indication of what they should do next.

'This way,' she said, with a smile at the air off to the left of him, then she turned and walked from the restaurant. 

Harry followed behind and they stepped out onto a path which gave way to a large grassy lawn, spotted with towering oaks. 

'We'll have to walk for a bit,' Luna said. 'We need to get to Gallarus Oratory before we can Apparate to the islands.'

'What islands?' Harry asked, uncomfortable with the fact that he had no idea where they were going.

'It's probably best if I don't tell you more, Harry,' Luna said. 'I'm not really supposed to bring people with me, so I probably should wait and see what they would like to tell you.'

'Why are you bringing me, then?' Harry asked, not wanting to dissuade her, but a bit bewildered by everything that had just happened.

'You're Harry Potter,' she said simply, and kept walking.

Harry followed behind her as they walked through the town and then down a road with fields on either side. He looked around, unable to shake the feeling that something would go wrong and that they were in danger. He couldn't see anything that was giving him that impression, and Luna seemed perfectly comfortable, but the ease of all of this didn't sit right with him.

It took them about twenty minutes to come to a large stone structure that seemed to rise from the earth. It was a simple design, large walls and a peaked roof with a door in the front. Luna led them inside and then turned to him and held out her arm.

'What is this place?' he asked, looking up at the stone roof above him, almost lost in the gloom.

'Gallarus Oratory. It's an ancient site. It's the only place you can Apparate to the islands from. If you take my arm, I'll Side-Along you.'

'Have you been there before, then?' Harry asked, not reaching for her yet.

Luna looked across at him, eyes not focusing in the right place. 'Oh yes,' she said. 'Many times. My father consulted with them often on his journey for the truth of the Hallows.'

Harry looked at her dubiously, wondering suddenly if this was just some crazy flight of fancy, some group of nutters that Luna and her father had been connected to. But then he reached out and took her arm. He didn't have any other leads at this point. He felt the Apparition hook him in the guts, spinning him away, and he reflected that he hated Apparition even more when he wasn't in charge of it.

He staggered as they landed, letting go of Luna's arm immediately. When he pushed himself straight it was to see that they were in another stone chamber, this one far larger and more elaborate. There were around a dozen people in the room, moving around it with an air of urgency. It was lit not by torches, but by electrical lights, buzzing from the ceiling. Harry looked around, getting his bearings. 

He and Luna had landed on top of a stone dais in the middle of a circular room. The room seemed to be divided into quarters and his eyes flicked quickly across. One wall contained a multitude of technology, computer monitors lit up and flickering with a dozen different images. Across from that was what looked like a rookery, crows and owls fighting for space on perches, above them a circle of light shining down from a hole in the roof. Further around were doors, leading off to other spaces.

Harry turned to focus on a person approaching them. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered with a thick beard. Harry glanced at Luna, but she didn't seem perturbed by his approach. He took his cue from her and stood, waiting.

The man climbed the two steps to the dais, his dark robes swirling around him, and stepped towards them.

'Hello, Luna,' he said, greeting her with a strained smile. 'What brings you to visit us today? I'm afraid there's rather a lot happening, so we probably can't give you our normal hospitality.'

Luna smiled back at him. 'Hello, Conor. I'm not visiting for myself. I've brought a friend.'

Conor glanced beside her, face taking on a slightly perplexed look, and Harry realised he was still wearing his cloak. He felt a small prick of unease at the thought of how natural it felt to do so. The feeling was drowned, a moment later, by the greater discomfort at the thought of removing it before this room full of strangers. He would have no defences from them. Harry shook his head, reminding himself Luna was a friend. She wouldn't bring him into harm. Not knowingly. And besides, he had his wand. He touched it for reassurance. He wasn't defenceless.

Harry took a deep breath and reached up to pull his hood back. Then he shrugged the cloak over his shoulders, so that his body was revealed as well.

Conor's eyes widened slightly but he didn't show any more obvious signs of surprise. He merely turned to face Harry, his expression becoming more serious. 

'Welcome to Skellig Michael. I'm Conor Gibbons and I lead the sect.' He reached out his hand and Harry eyed it for a moment, remembering what had happened when his bare skin touched Daniela's. If this man was the same sort as she was...

'I'm Harry Potter,' he said as he reached out slowly and they clasped hands. Nothing happened and Harry relaxed slightly.

Then Conor looked him in the eye and Harry saw that same ageless look that he'd seen in the eyes of Daniela and Jakub. He felt something shiver up his spine at it. Was he the same as them? Was he connected to some ancient power as well?

'You're a Catalyst,' Conor said, voice deep and certain.

Harry looked back at him, nonplussed, feeling his sense that Conor was connected to everything that had was happening deepen. Jakub and Daniela had called him a Dominus—a Master of Death. Now Conor thought he was a what? A Catalyst? Why couldn't these people just speak plainly? He was so sick of riddles and mysteries.

'What does that mean?' he asked, voice coming out more unfriendly than he'd meant it to. He pulled his hand back, crossing his arms so that his fingertips rested on his wand in its holster.

'You're a pebble in the pond,' Conor said, as though that was any more enlightening.

'Again—' Harry said, but Conor cut him off.

'Thank you for coming to us. The timing is tight for the changes needed. There's someone you need to speak to.' He said, gesturing off the dais to the wall which was lit up with a variety of computer screens. 

There was a figure seated in front of the screens and Harry could make out her fingers flying across keyboards as she moved back and forth from one terminal to another.

Conor didn't look to see if Harry was complying, instead, he stepped back down off the dais and began to walk across the stone chamber. Harry bit his tongue and stepped down after him. _The timing is tight for the changes needed? What the fuck did that mean?_ He barely looked to see whether Luna was following them.

As they walked closer to the woman, Harry glanced beyond her, to the displays that were lighting up the room with flickering images. They changed almost faster than he could focus on them. He saw fires, burned buildings, bodies piled in death, an oil spill, a flood, dead livestock, mass shootings, what looked like a bomb exploding, a woman holding her hand out, pleading. He dropped his eyes down to the woman at the desk. She was short, with long black hair that was braided in an elaborate design. Over the top of it, she wore Muggle headphones, big bulky things, and her fingers tapped the keyboards, moving in a blur. He wondered what on earth she was doing.

Conor reached out to put a hand on her shoulder and she jumped and whirled around, looking up with wide, startled eyes.

'Oh,' she said, a little too loudly. 'Hello, Conor. Have I forgotten to eat again? It can't be that time already. I feel like I just had breakfast a moment ago, but there's so much happening right now. Perhaps I could just have another coffee and get back into it, what do you think? Only I don't want to miss a moment of it. The change is happening too fast and I think we're on the precipice of the second rising, only I can't quite figure out where it's going to be yet, but if you could just give me a moment more to keep looking.'

Harry watched her, slightly stunned at the speed at which she was speaking. Her words were almost merging into each other in a continuous stream. She seemed not to have noticed him and Luna at all. Instead, her eyes were inching sideways, back to the endlessly scrolling images, and Harry could see her fingers twitching, as though she needed to be touching her keys again, manipulating the stories she was seeing.

'This is Aoife,' Conor said, angling his body back towards Harry. 'She's our Gatherer. Knows more about what's going on in the world than probably anyone else, certainly anyone else in the Skellig sect.' He looked down at her with a smile that Harry saw was fond, though it held an undercurrent of worry. 

Aoife had already turned back to the computers and was clicking a bunch of images, grouping them together and sending them onto the one screen, where they continued to unfold. They were all Muggle images, Harry realised, recognising the icons of the news channels on some of them and the strange static buzz that came from the footage where magic had been captured.

'I need you to take a break, love,' Conor said, reaching out again and gently pulling her headphones off, to sit around her neck. 'Get Cara in here for an hour. Harry,' Conor tilted his head and Aoife turned to him, seeming to notice him for the first time, 'Harry is a Catalyst.'

Aoife froze, her protests about moving away from her computers seeming to freeze on her lips. Harry saw her mouth the word _Catalyst_ and then she stood abruptly, walking forward five paces until she was outside of a dark line painted to the stones, which Harry hadn't noticed. He realised it must be some sort of barrier, which allowed the technology she looked after to function. 

Aoife pulled her wand and cast a Patronus. A small creature leapt from the end of her wand and looked back up at her, blinking in the light of the cavern. Harry was surprised to see it was a mole. Aoife told it to 'get Cara here right now,' and then turned to him.

'Catalyst,' she said, and her voice was flat. 'You'll be the one who caused the first rising, then?' 

Harry could tell it wasn't a question. 'Ah, that depends what you mean by first rising?' he said, having a sinking, uncomfortable feeling he knew exactly what she meant.

'Victorum—Conquest. You set it free, no?' Her tone was scathing, as though she was talking to a child who had behaved incredibly stupidly.

Harry felt himself bristle and he didn't try to stop his response. He was too tired for this shit.

'If you mean that a demon rider came bursting out of the chest of a woman I killed—the woman who _killed my son_ —then yes, I set it free.' He grit his teeth, fingers itching for his wand. That same mix of guilt and uncertainty over what he'd done came flooding back through him.

Aoife's face changed with his words, sympathy twisting across her features for a moment, at the mention of his son.

'Right,' she said brusquely. 'Well. I think it's highly unlikely that host in particular was responsible for the death of your child, though the rider may have been. Catalysts like you always get the bad end of the stick.'

Harry could hear her words but they weren't making any sense. None of this was making any sense and he couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't stand here with this uncertainty whirling around him. He hated being kept in the dark more than anything. The idea that he might have killed that woman for nothing made him sick to his bones.

'Enough!' he said, and his voice was almost a shout, echoing around the chamber. He glared at Aoife and then at Conor. He even turned his look to Luna, who just gazed back at him placidly. 'You all need to stop and someone needs to tell me what the hell is happening and why it's happening to me.'

'Of course, Catalyst,' Conor said, stepping closely and raising his hand as though he was soothing a skittish horse.

'My name is Harry,' he said, stepping away and reaching into his pocket for his smokes. He tapped one out and lit it up.

'Of course, Harry,' Conor said. 'Let's go somewhere a little quieter and we'll explain.'

Harry took a drag on his smoke and stayed silent, watching as Aoife's replacement arrived and slipped into the terminal, setting the streams to life again. Aoife seemed to give the screens a wistful look and Harry noticed she kept her headphones on, looped around her neck. He could hear tinny voices coming out of them, their faint sounds chopping and changing and hissing.

Conor gestured across the chamber and the four of them set off. He led them through one door and another, until they were in another large room, this one lit by magic, and lined with cases upon cases of books and scrolls. It was easily four times as large as the initial cavern they'd Apparated into, and this one had no signs of technology in it. Conor held the door open and gestured to a large, old table near the entrance.

'Here will do fine. The Record Keepers won't bother us.'

Harry took a seat at the table and finished his smoke, vanishing it and itching to light up another in its place. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, brushing against his runes as he did so, setting the ones for Need and the Unknown into life. They would sharpen him—help him to sort fact from fiction, and help him to make the connections and understand just what the hell was going on. He pushed against the one for Stamina on his ribs as well, almost grunting as the hit of adrenaline entered his system and helped to burn away some of his exhaustion. He'd pay for it when he crashed later, but he needed the stimulant now.

Conor took a seat and then turned to Harry. 'Have you heard of the _Statera_?' he asked.

Harry thought for a moment, thinking back to all of the people and ideas he'd come across in ten years of travelling as a Curse Breaker. He shook his head.

'We are an old group, as old as magic, some believe. We represent a balance. We do not strive for life and we do not strive for death. Instead, we work to contain both to manageable levels.'

Harry tried to take this in, remembering Daniela's words: _Unfettered life is no less dangerous than unfettered death_.

'What does that have to do with me?' he asked, needing the dots to be joined.

'An old force is rising in the world again. We call it the _Inaequalis_. There are other names for it. The Horsemen. Death. Chaos. Our role is to contain it. To push it back towards balance.'

' _What does that have to do with me?_ ' Harry asked again, tone harder this time. He didn't want to be drawn into this. Didn't want to be a part of this madness.

'You are central to it,' Aoife said, looking at him with eyes that held a hint of sadness. 'You are a source of change. You can affect the balance. You can push it to life, or to death, or you can help us hold it steady. You have more power than you can imagine.' Her voice turned bitter and Harry remembered her accusation about him causing the first rising.

'Why me?' he asked, aware his voice held a bitter note. Why did it always have to be him? Why couldn't he just live a normal life, just have one piece of happiness that he could keep? He didn't want to be a Catalyst. Didn't want to be a Chosen One. A _Dominus_. He just wanted James back.

'You wear a piece of Death wrapped around you,' Conor said and Harry turned back to him, blinking in surprise. His words, again, were very similar to the ones Daniela had spoken to him what felt like months ago, but had been little more than a week.

'Because of my scar?' he asked, and Conor's eyes moved to his forehead, as though he were seeing the lightning bolt that cut across his forehead and spilled down onto his cheek for the first time.

'You are twice marked by Death?' Conor asked, gesturing to Harry's scar and then to the cloak hanging over his shoulders, a flat silver now that Harry wasn't enveloped in it.

Harry reached down to run his fingers over the fabric, feeling soothed by its touch. He rubbed it between his fingers as he thought, as he wondered just how much he should reveal. He looked at Luna, sitting beside him and somehow her eyes held a hint of that same ageless wisdom as well.

'Thrice,' he said abruptly. 'I died. When I was seventeen. Instead of crossing over, I came back.'

Conor and Aoife exchanged looks, and the air in the library seemed to become much heavier all of a sudden.

Harry had an uncomfortable thought. He didn't know if he should voice it but at the same time, he felt like the words were crawling out of his throat. 'I—I met two people,' he said. 'In Prague. One was a DeathKeeper at an Ossuary, the other was... I'm not sure, a tree spirit maybe. They both named me a Dominus—a Master of Death.' He paused, nausea rising in him at the memory of their bodies. 'They were both killed and mutilated.'

' _Master of Death,_ ' Aoife murmured, giving Conor a wide-eyed look. Conor shook his head minutely in an expression Harry didn't know if he was supposed to catch. Luna had leaned forward and was studying Harry with interest. Harry remembered her father's area of study—the Hallows—and thought that perhaps mentioning this had been a mistake.

'Some people are fated,' Conor said. 'To touch life or to touch death more closely. And some walk the line in the middle.'

'I don't believe in fate,' Harry said, frowning, distracted from his thoughts about Jakub and Daniela as he remembered the prophecy that had torn everything from him. 'People have free will. It's their choices that turn them to one direction or another.' He felt his anger rising at just the thought of fate, and prophecy. If Voldemort had never acted on the prophecy, he would never have brought his own downfall. He had created Harry, in trying to stop him. Prophecies were an attempt to manipulate the future and Harry was so, so sick of being manipulated.

'You don't have to believe in it for it to be real,' said Aoife, the words bursting from her as though she'd been holding her tongue. 'I've been working here for the past twenty years, watching the world shape and change, watching it get ready for the next cycle. Whether you believe something is directing these changes or not, the fact remains they occur and we're entering the next big one. The question is what are you going to do to help stop what you caused?' She was breathing faster when she finished and there was a scowl on her face.

Conor reached out to place a hand on her arm. He gave her a look that seemed to be urging her to caution.

'There are people who are susceptible to becoming agents for _Inaequalis_ , or Death, or agents for _Aeterna_ , the Eternal,' Conor said. 'They tend to be the same people, often. It just depends which forces get to them first. They don't usually rise in the same cycle, Death and the Eternal. As one waxes in power, the other wanes.'

'What do you mean, which forces get them first?' Harry asked, his mind reeling as he tried to come to terms with it all. 'Do you mean the Horsemen?'

'In a crude sense, yes,' Conor said. 'What Muggles call the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are four of the most powerful elements of _Inaequalis_. In Muggle religion, they name them Conquest, War, Plague, and Death. I think over time the forces have come to like those concepts.' Conor gave a smile that was almost wry. 'We've certainly seen them choosing to confine themselves to those forms more regularly in the past few hundred years.'

'And life?' Harry asked, still not understanding. 'What's so wrong with life winning? Shouldn't we be pushing for that?' He wanted to get his notes out and see if he could link any of what he was hearing to the research he'd been doing. None of it yet explained why James had been killed.

Aoife made a disparaging noise and rolled her eyes. 'Unfettered life is stagnation. It's lawful good. It's the death of creativity and risk. Life without death—the very concept of the Eternal—leads to corruption in the name of virtue.' Harry thought suddenly of Voldemort and his quest for eternal life, of Umbridge and her drive for regulated freedom. He shivered.

'Balance is what we work for,' Aoife said. 'That woman in Prague, the one who became the host for Conquest. Did you hear her story?' Aoife barely waited for Harry's nod. 'She would have been an agent—a person who is a suitable host for one of the forces. She was working for peace, dedicated her life to it. That would have been why Conquest took her. They like to corrupt the agents who stand against them most strongly. I think the power they get is stronger because of it. I've been tracking agents, you see, over the past several hundred years. Most of them get killed, of course, taken out by one side before the other side can have them, but those who live to be subverted, those are the most interesting ones, and often the most powerful. Those are the ones who can do the real damage.'

'So how do you stop them?' Harry asked, interrupting the flow of her words. He needed specifics, not all this mumbo jumbo. He needed to know how this linked to James.

Aoife frowned. 'That's the hard part. We _don't_ kill the agent who hosts them, setting the source free.' She frowned at him again. 'You lit the bloody continent on fire. That was a bloody stupid thing to do. Once a force is inside a host, we have them for a bit. The _Inaequalis_ put themselves in an agent so they can interact with the corporal world, but they can't take themselves back out.'

'What do you mean, they can't take themselves back out?' Harry interrupted. 'These huge powerful forces for Death just choose to put themselves inside a human body and then they get stuck?' His tone was disbelieving. It sounded mad.

Aoife leaned back in her chair, tapping on the table as though she didn't have the time to be filling him in on all of this. 'Yes, they get stuck. They have to possess a human body to _do_ anything more useful than get inside people's dreams and try to corrupt them that way.'

Harry flinched at her words, but Aoife didn't seem to notice. She continued speaking.

'Once they're in there, the host body becomes invulnerable to normal death, so they can't even get one of their other agents to kill the host. They need someone like you—a Catalyst—to do it for them and to let them back out once they've finished their task.'

Aoife paused and scowled again. 'And up you waltz and just bloody kill that woman, letting Conquest loose, happy as you please, no heed for the consequences. No heed for the damage a source can do when it's loose in the world again, looking for a secondary agent to subvert.' Aoife smacked her hand on the table, making her disgust and anger clear. She barely drew a breath before she continued, her words getting faster and faster.

'It will join with War now, mark my words. We're going to see an all-out global conflict. Right up War's alley, of course. And with it, we'll see Plague joining the party and Death reigning over them all, like the carrion bird he is. It will be Wizard against Muggle, this cycle. They've already set it up that way. They're so close to breaking the Statute of Secrecy this time. We got them last time, with the Salem Witch Trials, but this time, I don't know if we—'

'Enough,' Conor said quietly, and she subsided, shutting her mouth with a snap and glaring at Harry with crossed arms.

'We've stopped the _Inaequalis_ many times before,' Conor said. 'They're part of a cycle of life and death, chaos and stagnation. We can stop them again. We just need to understand where they will be next. We think War has manifested in an agent—there is a lot of activity in America, in the New York region, in particular, that is out of the ordinary. But we haven't managed to link it to an individual and we haven't sighted Plague at all yet.'

Harry frowned at the complexity of what he was hearing. The unreality of it. Could there really be huge forces manipulating humanity in endless cycles over time? He thought of the hooded figure that watched him from his son's bedroom. 'And Death? Have you found Death?'

Conor shook his head, face grim. 'Death never manifests until the end is near. That's why we need people like you, Harry, who can combat them. The rest of us can only influence from the sidelines. _You_ and other Catalysts like you, can challenge them.'

'How do you stop them?' Harry said again, pulling out his smokes and lighting another one up. He knew the words came across as noncommittal, but he had nothing more than that to give at this point. The idea that he could stop _Death_. It was madness.

'When they are newly manifested,' Conor said, 'they're easier to defeat. The Muggles have part of it right, those that follow the Christian religion. It's in their Book of Revelation. They place a scroll in God's right hand, sealed with seven seals. Their Jesus, the Lamb of God, opens the first four seals which summons four beings that ride out on horses. They go a bit off track after that. The Christian apocalyptic vision is that the Four Horsemen are to set a divine apocalypse upon the world as harbingers of the Last Judgment from their God. Their role is to give the people of the world a chance to repent before they die. It's quite macabre stuff. But the heart of it is right. There are seals, for each of the forces. The force that responds to the name of Conquest can be sealed back away using the Seal of Triumph.'

 _The Seal of Triumph_ , that was what Daniela had called the tattooed sigil she had on her chest. 'These seals,' he asked, leaning forward. 'People wear them?'

At his question, both Conor and Aoife reached up to touch the centre of their chests. 

'Yes,' Conor said, 'it's a form of protection, though it also makes us a target. The seal that each of us chooses aligns with which force, for life or for death, we feel most called to combat.'

'And what happens when you don't get them at the start of their power?' Harry asked, coming back to Conor's earlier statement. 

He tried to focus on everything he was hearing. He was so tired, though. He could feel it breaking through the artificial boost of his Stamina rune. He'd been pushing too hard for too long, and it was an effort to make himself follow the complexity of what he was hearing. 

Hermione had always been better at this sort of thing than he was. For a moment he felt a fierce stab of longing for her. He imagined being able to lean on her, to share this burden with her. He forced himself not to think of Hermione. She had no place here.

'Unless the Catalyst that faces them is exceptionally powerful, if we don't get them at the start of their power, we need to wait until they need to burn themselves out,' Conor said grimly. 

Harry made himself pay attention.

'You know the Black Plague?' Aoife asked. 

Harry nodded. Of course he knew the Black Plague. He'd learned about it in primary school as well as in History of Magic. Twenty-five million people had died.

'We got Conquest and War that cycle, but we missed Plague. Death feasted for years.' Aoife made a face. 'If you want another example of a time we failed, take the Muggle war—World War Two they called it. Eighty-five million people died. We got Conquest reasonably early, but War moved around so much. The Catalysts were all young men who were too eager to kill. There was so much hate that cycle. Then Plague ran rampant in the Death Camps.' Her face was sad, as though she remembered those times, rather than just having read about them.

'I could give you a hundred more examples just the same,' she said, gesturing at the shelves of scrolls around them. 'We have to lock them back down as quickly as we can. That's the only way to avoid wide-scale suffering.'

'And what about my son?' Harry asked, his mind coming back to that thought again and again, unable to make the connection as to why James had had to die. 'What does he have to do with all of this?'

Aoife looked at him, her eyes knowing again, but it was Conor who spoke, his voice strangely gentle. 'You are a Catalyst, Harry. Death marked you for his own. The forces—they like to play with the Catalysts, or kill them before they can be brought against them. It's possible that however your child died, he took a death that had been aimed at you. Or it's possible the _Inaequalis_ took him from you, because they knew it would motivate you to make change that led you to darker places.'

Abruptly Harry realised how dark a place he'd been in when he'd decided to kill the First—Eliška, he reminded himself, her name had been Eliška—and let the Horseman free. He'd walked right into their trap, like the blind idiot he was.

They had killed James instead of him, or killed James to manipulate him, and he'd done exactly as they expected. He was a fucking fool. He had let his son down in the worst of ways.

'Right,' Harry said, pushing to his feet. 'Right.'

Conor stood too, and the look on his face held concern. 

'Where are you going?' he asked.

Harry just shook his head. 'I need to think.' He needed a smoke. He needed some Gillyweed. He needed something to calm the thoughts that were swirling faster and faster in his mind. He felt his guilt rise up in his throat like toxic bile. He wanted to vomit it up, let it spew forth and show the world how sick he was inside.

'You can't leave, Harry,' Conor said. 'We have to talk more about this.'

Harry shook his head and kept walking. He was done talking. He couldn't hear anymore. Couldn't think any more.

 _James' death is your fault,_ a voice whispered in his mind. _This is all because of you. You were never meant to have happiness. They killed him because you tried to have something better than what you deserved._

Harry pulled the cloak up over his head and shrugged it back over his shoulders, feeling its comforting presence wrap around him, shielding him from the world. He heard footsteps beside him and looked around to see Luna hurrying after him. A voice came from behind him, but he didn't turn.

'Catalyst, wait!'

Harry kept walking.

'You can't do this alone. It's not safe.'

Harry ignored the words as he stepped up onto the dais and whirled himself into Apparition.

~

The stone walls of Gallarus Oratory materialised around him and Harry took a second to catch his breath, everything he'd just heard still swirling in his mind. He felt dizzy and tried to think how long it had been since he had last eaten. A moment later he heard another pop of Apparition and Luna appeared beside him. It was with her appearance that two figures stepped inside the stone building. 

Harry's eyes widened and he sucked in a sharp breath, feeling anxiety race through him. He couldn't do this. Not now. Not after what he'd just heard. He had to be prepared before he did this. Had to have time to _think_. He could feel the pressure, feel everything he'd just heard, pushing at him until he couldn't breathe. He took a step forward, speaking just to break himself out of his own thoughts.

'What are you doing here?' Harry said, voice rough as he stepped forward to face Ron and Hermione for the first time in over a year.

'Harry?' Hermione said, twisting to look around at the place his voice had come from. Harry realised he'd forgotten he was wearing the cloak and he cursed himself. He could have Apparated away again without them even knowing he was there. 

Instead he pushed the cloak off, his heart beating hard in his chest. He felt sick at seeing them, a scared tension twisting its way through him. It was overlaid by longing. A part of him wanted to go to them, to lean on them and be told everything would be okay, that they would work it out together.

He couldn't. He knew he couldn't. He'd tried that a year ago and nearly ended up locked up, for his 'own good'. Just the thought of it sent anger stirring through him, chasing away the uncertainty and longing. Harry embraced the heat of it, pulling it closer. He couldn't afford to be weak. Not now. Not after what he'd just heard.

'Did you tell them I would be here?' Harry demanded, rounding on Luna.

Luna blinked, her only reaction to his anger. 'Of course. We all would. It's something Ron and Hermione asked of us when you disappeared. If you made contact with anyone, we were to let them know, straight away.'

Harry felt his fury grow at the idea that all of his friends were spying on him, reporting back. He was suddenly glad that he'd made contact with no one but Ron while he'd been gone. And he'd been able to tell Ron only the things he wanted him to know.

'So you've stooped to that level?' Harry asked, fixing the two of them with a glare. It was easier to look at them, when he was wrapped in anger—easier to hide away the part of him that was hurting at seeing them. 'Turning my friends against me.'

'You're being dramatic, Harry,' Hermione said, her voice low and almost toneless. She sounded tired. 

He looked more closely at her. She looked exhausted; there were shadows under her eyes and her hair was a messy tangle. He felt abruptly guilty, and had to stop himself from asking her if she was okay.

'Luna's hardly a friend—sorry, Luna,' Hermione said, turning to her for a second. 'You haven't even spoken to her in years, and you're probably just here now because you need something from her.'

Harry wanted to argue back but it struck him abruptly that she was right. He was only with Luna because he'd wanted information from her. Her father, really. He wouldn't have given her a second thought if the idea of the Hallows hadn't made him think of Xenophilius and the information they'd gotten from him last time they'd been on a mad search no one else believed in.

And now look at him. He'd certainly got information. And so much more to boot.

_You're a Catalyst. We need you to save the world._

_It's possible however your child died, he took a death that had been aimed at you._

Fucking _fuck_. He still didn't know if he believed it. The whole thing was so mad. But so much of what he had just heard brought the threads of his research over the last year together in a way that had a frightening ring of truth to it.

'Are you okay?' Ron asked, stepping forward and breaking Harry out of his thoughts. He reached up, as though to bring Harry into an embrace but dropped his arms when Harry stepped back half a pace. He couldn't let Ron hold him. He couldn't or he'd break into pieces. 

'Do you need help?' Ron asked, the look on his face pleading, as though asking Harry to turn to him, like he had so many times before. Ron looked tired too, Harry thought, and he was moving slowly, as though he was recovering from an injury.

Harry felt that connection pull at him more strongly, just for a moment. That wish to unburden himself, to share everything he'd found with Ron and Hermione, to have them bear it with him. But then he brushed his hand against the cloak, rubbing it between his fingers, and the thought was gone, smothered in the blanket of nothingness that covered him so often lately. 

'I'm fine,' he said instead, retreating into the numbness. It was better than the pain of feeling. 'What are you doing here?'

Hermione looked hurt at that question. 'We came here for you,' she said, voice soft. 'Like we always would. You've been getting our letters, I know you have. We're worried about you, Harry. We haven't heard back from you in over a year and now you turn up and you need something from _Luna_?'

'I'm fine,' Harry said again, realising as thoughts and fears churned inside him, how far from fine he really was. He could feel his heart begin to beat faster again. Having Ron and Hermione right in front of him, looking at him like he'd somehow let them down, wasn't helping in the slightest. He reached for his smokes and lit one, sucking back on it and trying to let the nicotine calm him slightly. It didn't work. But it gave him something to do with his hands, something to do aside from feel guilty over the hurt radiating from his two best friends.

'Where did you take Harry, Luna?' Hermione asked, turning to her.

Luna looked unfazed by Hermione's demanding tone. She just smiled. 'To visit the _Statera_. I'm afraid I can't take you. I could send an owl to see if someone wants to come across and have a conversation with you, though? If you like?'

But Hermione had turned away, looking instead to Harry, with disbelief in her voice. 'The _Statera_? What do you want with them, Harry? They're a bunch of deluded mystics, and absurd ones at that.'

Harry watched her, taking another drag on his smoke as her words made it clear just how much space there was between the two of them now. The void felt too large to bridge. He'd known she'd react like this. Known she wouldn't understand. How could he even begin to tell her what he'd found over the last year, what he'd done? Hermione never did trust things she couldn't see for herself.

'They're like the Wizarding world's version of the Illuminati,' Hermione continued. 'A bunch of crackpots believe in them and that's about it.'

'I guess I must be a crackpot, nowadays,' Harry said, voice flat, as he took a step closer to Luna. He realised as he said it, that he'd picked a side. He knew what he'd just been told by Conor and Aoife was the truth. Something about it resonated with him down to his very bones.

There were forces in the world that had taken James from him, and he was going to fucking make them _pay_.

'You really have no idea what I've been through since James was killed,' Harry said, voice hard now. He pulled his cloak more tightly around himself, as though it were armour. He ignored the look of distress on Hermione's face, as she realised she may have overstepped.

'Death took James from me,' Harry continued, voice determined. 'And these people know how to stop it.'

Hermione's mouth worked for a moment, soundlessly, and then she stepped forward, face lined with a desperate concern. 'You can't stop _Death_ , Harry. No one can. You—you need help. You're sick.'

Harry felt his anger flare to life again at her words, hotter than before. He'd known she would react this way. He'd _known_ she would. He wanted to shout at her—shake her—make her understand that he couldn't trust her when she didn't believe him; when she'd abandoned him. It was supposed to be the three of them against the world. A year ago, after James had died, Hermione had pitted herself against him, and she clearly hadn't changed that stance.

Harry took a step back, fighting to control the anger and betrayal surging through him, cutting new wounds, over the old.

'Come home with us, Harry,' Ron said, glancing with Hermione, as though telling her to stop speaking. 'We have about forty-five minutes before the international Floo routes are closed. Come home with us and we can help you figure all this out. If you don't come home now, you won't be able to.'

Harry thought about that, and about everything he'd heard. He heard Hermione's words in his mind again. _You're sick_. He knew there was only one option.

'Don't try and come after me,' he said to Ron and Hermione, and then as Ron pulled his wand out, Harry Apparated away.

~ 

He landed in an alley in Dublin, near a pub he liked to frequent when he visited. He'd thought for a split second of going back to Skellig Michael, but with only one route in and out, he couldn't be guaranteed there wouldn't be a trap lying in wait for him when he came back out. He'd seen the look on Ron's face. That was his Auror face. It said he thought he knew what was best for Harry and if that involved stunning him and dragging him to St Mungo's, Ron would have no hesitation in doing so.

Harry paused for a moment, trying to force his racing thoughts to calm. He pulled his cloak back on, almost absently, and leaned against the wall of the alley, closing his eyes. Gods, but he was so tired. He could feel the crash from using his Stamina rune fast approaching. He knew he couldn't stay here long, but it would take Ron a while to get a trace expert to follow his Apparition trail, if he even had the resources to do that, with the borders closing.

He tried to think how long it had been since he had eaten, and couldn't remember. He also didn't think he'd slept since the night of the riots in Prague. That had been a day ago? Two? He wasn't sure. Everything was starting to blur together. 

He opened his eyes and pushed off from the wall, making his way towards Buswells. He slipped in the door behind a couple who looked like they were entering for dinner. A quick trip through the kitchen and he'd filched a meat pie and then a bottle of whiskey from the bar. He made his way upstairs, listening at the doors before casting Alohomora at a vacant room. A few moments later and it was warded and silenced and he felt like he could rest for a minute.

He put the pie down on the table and lay down across the bed, fully dressed. He paused only to drop his rucksack over the edge before pulling his boots up under his cloak so that none of him was showing. Lying curled around himself, he let unconsciousness take him.

~

Harry stood upon a field of bent and broken bodies.

He turned, looking around at the mounds of people, as far as the eye could see. He could see no rhyme or reason. There were people of all ages, genders, backgrounds. Some wore Auror uniforms or soldier uniforms, but many more were dressed for school, for the bakery, for the office. They wore robes, pyjamas and party clothes. Every one of them was torn or rent, slashes and wounds across their bodies, blood leaving them to form great rivers running along the ground.

Harry looked down at his feet, feeling a dull sickness at the realisation that he was standing on the legs of a child, her eyes sightless as she screamed silently up at the sky.

He jumped down, moving across the bodies, trying to keep his footing so he didn't have to touch them with his hands. 

Harry moved through the landscape of the dead for an age, or for a heartbeat. He felt like he was suspended in an eternal moment. The only sound was the harsh panting of his own breath. Everywhere he looked were sightless eyes, accusing faces.

Everywhere he looked the dead screamed at him: _This is your fault_.

He walked until he was covered in blood, until its sticky coldness coated every part of him, and then he saw them.

A bent, bewildered old woman leading a weeping child by the hand. He approached them slowly, after an eternity of walking alone upon the field of death.

'Hello?' he asked.

They didn't speak. Neither of them acknowledged his existence. They just kept moving, endlessly searching. And Harry knew. Harry knew they had lost everybody in the world that cared for them, and they were alone.

Harry knew that what he was seeing was a truth that would come to pass.

With that thought he looked up, looked past the woman and the child, to see a figure on a horse.

He took a stumbling step forward, and then another, climbing over the bodies with increasing speed, until he was pulling them out of his way. All the while the figure stayed still, aside from the banner it held, a deep crimson, which flapped in the absence of any wind.

As Harry got closer he could make out details. The horse was stained with red and black streaks like dried and clotted blood. Its eyes shone crimson and long teeth extended from its muzzle, pointed and vicious. It shifted on its hooves, as though it wanted to run. Upon its back, its rider held the reins in an iron-clad fist.

The figure on the horse wore armour that was viciously spiked. It was a dark, smoky black that was dented from combat. It wore a helmet that covered its eyes and left its mouth clear. Long pale hair whipped in the non-existent wind. Strapped to its back was a deadly-looking greatsword, the type that could cut a man in half. 

Harry watched as its mouth curved into a cruel smile, its teeth filed into points and stained with blood.

'I will see you soon, Catalyst,' the Horseman said.

Harry woke, sitting bolt upright and gasping. He reached up to feel for his hood and pull it closer, only to realise it had come off in his sleep. He must have knocked it off with his tossing and turning. He pulled it around himself and curled his knees up to his chest as he tried to swallow the bile and stop himself from shaking.

He knew what he had seen. That had been War. The next of the Horsemen. And it knew him now. It knew he was coming. He swallowed again, at the terror of that thought.

He couldn't do this. It was mad to think he could.

He pushed his way out of bed and slumped heavily into the chair by the window. He reached for the bottle of whiskey he'd stolen, not even bothering with a glass. He cracked it open and lifted it to his lips, drinking deeply, wincing against the burn.

He kept going until half the bottle was gone and the immediacy of his terror felt slightly distanced. Then he picked up his fork and poked at the pie. He knew he needed to eat. He lifted the fork to his mouth and then gagged at the feeling of the sinewy meat in his mouth. It made him think of the bodies, torn open and left as some obscene tribute to death. He spat the meat out and vanished the whole plate, picking up the bottle and taking another deep swallow to clear his mouth.

He needed to figure out what to do next. He couldn't go back to Skellig Michael, that much was clear. But he knew there was a lot more he needed to learn from them. If only everything hadn't happened so fast.

That thought gave him an idea and he reached into his Mokeskin pouch, pulling out his modified Pensieve and placing it on the table before him. Then he raised his wand to his temple and pulled the memory forth, dropping it in and letting it play over the wall opposite him.

He reached for a notepad and a pen too, and began to jot down his thoughts, everything from the moment he'd Floo'd Luna to the moment he'd Apparated away from Ron and Hermione. He ignored the flare of pain the thought of them caused. He couldn't think of them. He took notes on his dream as well, all of the details he could recall from it.

It was only as he viewed the day back for the second time that he realised Conor hadn't elaborated on the idea that Harry might be the Master of Death. He noted that down. Had it been an oversight? Or had Conor deliberately steered clear of speaking about it? Aoife had definitely reacted strongly to the idea that he might be.

Harry put that thought aside and watched the memories again and again. It was only as the level of the whiskey bottle dropped to the last inch that he noticed something he'd missed the other times. He tapped his wand on the Pensive to pause the memory and then stood up, stumbling slightly as he crossed the room to examine the images Aoife had been monitoring. There were events from all over the world playing across the screens, but Harry was sure he'd caught something that wasn't right.

He flicked his wand to let the memory play again and then froze it.

 _There_. He checked the news source. CNN. And then the scrolling by-line at the bottom of it.

_US AND RUSSIA SIGN HISTORIC TREATY PLEDGING ARMED FORCES AGAINST CURRENT UNREST_

Then he looked back up at the image of fifteen men in Muggle suits standing to watch the US and Russian Presidents shake hands.

None of the men in the image were important. None except the one in the far left corner, almost hidden behind two others. Harry took another step closer to the image projected onto the wall, steadying himself with one outstretched hand, and frowned as he saw a small, satisfied smirk on a very familiar face.

'Malfoy,' Harry muttered grimly. 'What the fuck are you doing at an American arms deal?'

~

When Harry woke the next day, his mouth felt like a toilet and a headache thumped through his skull. He opened his rucksack and fished out the potions kit he used in the field. Hangover potion wasn't a standard item, but he'd been sure to make it one in his own kit.

A quick shower and a change of clothes later and he felt semi-human, if in need of something to eat. He felt lightheaded and knew it was because of the way he'd been abusing his body lately. He tidied the room with a quick flick of his wand and headed downstairs, stealing an egg muffin from the bain-marie on his way back out the door. This, at least, didn't make him want to gag, and he was able to finish it quickly.

He'd figured out his next steps the night before and made his way to the Dublin Owlery. He scribbled a quick note to Conor asking for more information about the American connections they'd mentioned the day before. He also left his London Post Box address, the one that was linked to his replicating box. He couldn't risk going back to see them again, but the idea of cutting off all contact seemed mad. They clearly knew more than he did about all of this.

While he was there, he picked up a copy of the _Dublin Times_ , then he crossed back into Muggle Dublin to pick up a copy of the Muggle version. He went for a walk down to the harbour and sat by the water as he read through each of the papers. The Wizarding version told him a whole lot more than the Muggle one did. Cross-border travel had indeed been closed. Harry wondered for a moment if Hermione, Ron, and Luna had got back alright.

He felt an ache at the thought of them. Seeing them again, out of nowhere like that, had shaken him up more than he'd realised. For a moment, he had a mad desire to check on them—to owl them or try and Floo them or something, but he pushed it down. He was better off without them. They didn't believe him, either of them, and he couldn't do what he needed to if they were chasing him down.

He forced himself to focus on the newspaper again, scanning through it. There were no attacks against Muggles on Irish soil yet, though the newspaper reported darkly of an increase in graffiti and anti-Muggle sentiment. In Paris and Berlin, Muggles had killed another fifteen Wizards and Witches overnight. The paper was thick with outrage and fear. There were letters to the editor about pre-emptive strikes, pleas to seal off magical areas permanently and calls for strong leadership from the Ministry.

The Muggle paper was full of stories about the conflict across the water and what it might mean. It told him nothing new. He vanished both and looked out over the harbour, thinking about his next steps. It was clear the conflict was escalating rapidly, sucking more and more people into its maw. He thought again of what he had seen in the Pensieve memory. He needed to find out more about what Malfoy had to do with all of this.

The Muggles hadn't stopped travel between borders yet and it only took him a few minutes to invade the minds of a few dock workers, locate a ship that was headed to Liverpool, and stow himself on board.

He stepped off later that day, concentrated on where he needed to be, and Apparated. Weaving on his feet slightly as he landed, Harry reflected a single egg muffin probably wasn't enough food to sustain him. He pushed the thought away. He had more important things to focus on. 

Stepping forward, he looked through the gates of Malfoy Manor. The place looked abandoned. The hedges, so trim and neat in his memories, were scraggly and overgrown, and there was no sign of movement across the expansive lawns. Even the peacocks that normally swarmed around the place seemed to be gone. Harry wondered if anyone had been back since the Aurors had left, almost a year ago.

He wondered if Malfoy had been back.

He pushed the thought aside and reminded himself why he was here. Malfoy was a loose end. Malfoy had mentioned hooded figures, when he'd pushed his way into James' funeral. Gods, but it seemed like so long ago. He'd looked desperate to tell Harry something, and he'd disappeared not long after, leaving a pile of bodies behind him. Now Harry had seen him in news footage from across the world, at a key strategic event. There had to be something to it.

Was Malfoy a Catalyst, like him?

Hopefully, he would get more information from Conor and Aoife, but in the meantime, Harry needed to do the investigation he'd not been able to on the night he'd fled the country.

He lifted his wand and sent one of his diagnostic charms chasing around the wards. It came back to tell him the only impediment to his access was the standard Auror spell to secure a crime scene. He raised his wand again and gave a neat twist and flick, creating a loop for himself to pass through. Compared to what he normally dealt with, these spells were laughably easy to bypass. It wouldn't even register that he'd been there.

He checked again when he got to the house. This time he could feel other spells, older spells, layered beneath the crime scene ones. He considered them, watching them move slowly across the surface of the entrance, undulating sluggishly. His diagnostics came back free of threat. The spells knew he was there but didn't plan to harm him.

 _I must still be keyed to the wards_ , Harry thought, and felt a small twinge of something at that thought. Regret, maybe? He pushed it away. It had been a long time since he'd thought of Malfoy and what had been between them. He wasn't about to start second-guessing why Malfoy had left his wards open eight years later.

Instead, he performed that same flick and twist and stepped through the Auror-created barrier, pushing the door open and moving into the large marble entrance. His eyes moved to the place he remembered seeing the body, the night he'd come to force Malfoy to tell him what he knew.

The floor was clean, as he knew it would be. The bodies and any evidence the Manor contained would have been long removed by the Aurors. A part of him wasn't sure why he was here. Another part hated to wait idly; he needed something, anything, to do. Even if he turned up nothing of use while he waited for Conor and Aoife to respond to him, at least he wasn't sitting in a hotel room drinking himself stupid.

He made his way through the house slowly, noting the magical markers that indicated evidence, which were still tagged throughout the house. He remembered what Ron had said about the crime scene. Malfoy's magical signature had been linked to every single death. Harry remembered his disbelief at the time, that Malfoy could be capable of killing fifteen people—the entire staff of his house—and then disappearing with his son.

At the thought of the boy, Harry made his journey through the house a little more purposeful. It was a few minutes before he found it. A child's bedroom. He deliberately didn't think about how he knew Malfoy favoured the East wing for a child's room because it was the one his mother used to manage, which his father never entered.

Harry stood in the doorway and looked around at Scorpius Malfoy's room. It was a bright space, with large windows on one wall and a mural painted across another. Dragons swooped majestically over a scene that looked much like the Great Lake at Hogwarts. The bed was a four-poster, with pale green hangings. There were wooden blocks piled up and then scattered across the floor, as though the boy had been in the middle of building a castle when he was interrupted. 

For a moment, Harry could almost see him there, blond head bent over the blocks, concentration on his face. He wondered if the boy looked like Draco had, as a child. The though gave him a pang of grief. James had had Harry's hair, dark and unruly. He wondered, as he had so many times before, whether his son would have grown up to look like him. That thought had no place here, and Harry shook it off.

His eye caught on a photo beside the bed and he stepped slowly into the room, feeling all the while like an unwelcome visitor, like at any moment the boy would barrel back into the space.

He reached the side table and stretched down to pick up the framed picture. It was of Malfoy and his son. They were riding a broom together. The boy looked to be around four years old and his face shone with happiness as he gripped the broom handle, leaning down as though to make it go faster. Malfoy was sitting behind him with one arm wrapped around him. The look on his face was one of pride mixed with a desperate tenderness that made something crack in Harry's chest.

Suddenly he couldn't be there, in the room of Malfoy's child, looking at the boy's happiness and not knowing if he was even alive. He must be alive. Surely. Malfoy couldn't have been in that news report from Harry's memories, doing whatever it was he was doing with such smugness, if his son wasn't alive. 

Harry began to move through the house more quickly. He had a job to do—figure out the connection between Malfoy and everything that was going on. That was all. He looked into Malfoy's study, but everything inside it had clearly been taken by the Aurors long ago. He sent his diagnostic charms running through the room but they returned no results. The library looked to have been cleared out too. Harry felt like a ghost as he wandered the halls, invisible and alone.

He couldn't help but remember, as he walked, other times he'd been in this house. He had a vivid image, as he entered the kitchen, of Malfoy on his knees, licking treacle from Harry's stomach, opening his jeans with needy hands. He pushed the image away. He'd locked those memories up a long time ago, refused to give them the power to hurt him. Malfoy had left. Everything between them before that had been a lie.

He was lost in his own head, his feet taking a familiar path, and he didn't realise it until he found himself in the doorway of Malfoy's bedroom. He looked around, unable to help himself, as he noted the changes. It had been redecorated, painted in tasteful blues and creams. Harry wondered if that was Malfoy's doing, or that of the wife he'd lost with the birth of his son.

The bed was the same. Harry found his eyes lingering at the mahogany headboard for just a moment. Felt the phantom grip of restraints around his wrists as he curled his hands around the wood. He heard the murmur of Malfoy's voice in his ear.

_You like that, Potter? You take it so well. I knew you would._

Harry flushed and looked away, snapping himself out of it. Instead, he took a cursory look around the room, sending his diagnostic charms out in front of him like he had in every other room. Only this time, one of them returned a result that was more than just centuries of magic imbued into the building.

He walked to the bedside table, where charm that amplified his gut instinct was wiggling with glee, and waved his wand to slide the drawer out. It was empty and he frowned, glancing down at his charm, which was showing no sign of losing interest. Harry looked at it for a long moment before something occurred to him. He returned his attention to the drawer and thought about another charm Malfoy had taught him, so many years ago, when they'd been wine drunk and maudlin, talking of the war.

'I kept a journal. My own form of Occlumency. Put all the thoughts in there the Dark Lord could never know and then locked them up.' Malfoy had mimed a key, locking it tight, and throwing it away.

'How could you create a lock he couldn't get into?' Harry asked, interested, but sleepy, his head on Malfoy's chest as he watched the fire crackling in the grate in front of them.

'I didn't use a key,' Malfoy said, and his voice was serious. 'I sent it elsewhere.'

'What do you mean elsewhere,' Harry said, lifting his head in puzzlement.

'There's a white place,' Malfoy said. 'A waiting place. Sometimes I put things there, to wait.'

Harry had shivered, at his own memories of a white place where things waited. He didn't want to talk about it. He hadn't told anyone about that place. So he changed the subject, reaching up to pull Malfoy into a kiss. They weren't good at talking, but at least they were good at fucking.

Harry came back to himself as he looked down at the drawer again, remembering that moment in a new light. Was Malfoy connected to Death too? Had that been what he was doing, all those years ago, when he put things elsewhere? Harry's earlier thought came back to him. Was Malfoy a Catalyst, too? Was he mixed up in all of this? Or had his appearance in the news footage been a coincidence?

He looked back down at the drawer and thought of the movement Malfoy had made that night, thought of the place between worlds.

He concentrated on that place, feeling the cloak ripple around him as he closed his eyes, almost as though it were drawing him closer, making the bridge to it easier to cross. He breathed out slowly, stilling his mind, then he reached out with his wand and copied the movement Malfoy had made so long ago, the twist and pull. He felt something resist him for a moment and he pulled harder, breathing out as he felt it let go.

Harry didn't have to open his eyes to know it had worked. But when he looked down, he didn't see the journal he had expected to see. Instead, there was another photo in the open drawer.

He reached down to pick it up with fingers that shook slightly.

It was a picture of the two of them. It had been taken on Harry's twenty-third birthday. Malfoy had surprised him, taken him to Amsterdam for the first time. They'd smoked Gillyweed together, sitting on a rooftop bar where no one particularly cared who they were. A random Wizard had been handing pictures out to people all night.

Harry watched as the image of himself reached across to cup Malfoy's face, drawing him into a kiss, before tilting his head to whisper in Malfoy's ear.

Harry felt his chest clench as he remembered what he had said. It had been the first time he told Draco he loved him.

A few weeks later, Draco had walked out on him.

Harry stared at the photo, his eyes catching on the look of transparent happiness on Malfoy's face.

He felt his mood sour further. What the fuck was Malfoy doing with this photo, still? How dare he pretend that any of it had mattered?

With an angry flick, Harry threw the photo into the air and directed an _Incendio_ at it. Then he turned and walked from the room.

This had been a waste of his time. All it had done was stir memories better left dead.

~

Harry spent two days thinking and planning before he visited his London post box. He half-thought Ron might jump out of the shadows, but he opened it unmolested. He'd expected a letter back from Conor, but it was Aoife who had written to him. He wasn't surprised to see she wrote the way she spoke. It was pages and pages of information in a quick, scribbled hand. He skimmed it quickly.

_I'm getting an increasing number of reports that make me think Conquest has moved into the United States as well, possibly to join War. We're hearing the word Preservation far more than even a few days ago, and there are a number of tensions already boiling that it wouldn't take much to tap into. There have been at least fifty magical deaths in the States, reportedly caused by Muggles. Everyone's on edge. The two forces are being bloody smart about it this cycle._

_The magical community in America experiences significant discrimination and has suffered cycles of persecution over several hundred years. It won't take much to bring them into the fold, not when Conquest has the entire uprising in Europe to feed off._

The sub-text was obvious; this is entirely your fault. 

Harry ignored it and kept reading, filing away the various sightings and connections she had made. They would all be valuable.

_If you're going, you'll need to make contact with Blake Williams. They're the Gatherer from the New York Chapter. They'll be able to get you sorted. The New York Chapter is based in the Upper West Side and you'll need to access them by visiting the American Museum of Natural History. They're underneath. PLEASE CONTACT BLAKE. This is too important to fuck up again, Catalyst._

He flicked to the last two pages to see four images drawn there. Each was named in turn. He recognised the first, the Seal of Triumph. It was the circle containing the diamond and the infinity triangles which he'd seen on Daniela, and which the Preservation was perverting.

The other three weren't familiar. 

The Seal of Scattering looked like crossed blades again and again within a circle. It figured that that one was related to War. It looked like a battle just sitting there on the page.

The Seal of the Curse-Carrier looked poisonous. It had a solid black bar up the centre of the circle, from which came pointed barbs, spiked backwards like hooks. Other spines pointed up to meet them.

The final one was the Seal of the Veil. It was a circle divided by an X, with a V shape coming off each side. It made Harry think of eyes opening in the darkness. He hated it with a visceral sense of terror that came from somewhere deep inside him.

Each of the seals had the name of the force they worked against written next to them, with words below that looked like some sort of invocation.

Underneath all of this was Aoife's handwriting again. She had written the words in heavy ink and then underlined them.

_Don't fuck this up!_

Harry read the lot again and then placed everything inside his Mokeskin pouch, tucking it away with his other notes. 

He knew what he had to do next. He had to find a way to get on board a Muggle aeroplane and make his way to New York. Then he had to find Malfoy and figure out what the hell he knew about all of this.

~  
  
In the end, crossing countries the Muggle way was far easier than Harry expected. It didn't take him long to find a bus that was headed to the airport. With his Invisibility Cloak on, he simply bypassed the lines and the scanners. There were people in uniforms everywhere and for some reason a bunch of them had dogs pulling them about the place. Twice he had to use a mild _Confundus_ charm when one of the animals looked interested in heading his way. Harry wondered if this was how the airport always was, or if the Muggles were reacting to the increasingly severe reports of violence and unrest on the news. Everywhere he looked he could see TV screens and newspaper headlines screaming about the rise in death and destruction.

The atmosphere in the airport was tense. People didn't meet each other's eyes for long, lowering their heads and hurrying past. No one was browsing the shops. Instead, they all looked like they were determined just to get to where they were going, as quickly as possible. Harry slipped between them soundlessly, feeling like he was walking through a world that was separated from theirs, as though he were behind a veil that was more solid than the cloak he wore.

It took him a few minutes to work out the departures board, to figure out where he needed to be for a London to New York flight. Then it was just a matter of waiting. He settled himself in a corner of the lounge with a mild Muggle-repelling charm around him and closed his eyes, just for a moment.

He woke forty-five minutes later when the boarding call was piped across the speakers, and he waited for all the other passengers to queue first. The sleep didn't seem to have helped much. He still felt foggy, as though he was at a remove from everything around him. He wondered if he could sleep again on the flight, but decided it would be too dangerous. If he was discovered, he would have nowhere to go, and he wasn't sure trying to attempt a mass _Obliviation_ on an aeroplane mid-flight was advisable.

The aeroplane didn't seem to be full, which meant there was a spare seat in the front section he could tuck himself into as he entered behind the last of the crew. The seat was roomier and more comfortable than he expected, and he made sure the cloak was covering his whole body before he put the same Muggle repellent charms up, stronger this time, as well as a Notice-Me-Not. He couldn't chance someone deciding to swap seats mid-flight, or to use this spare one for storage.

The board had said the flight was eight hours, and as Harry settled in, he wondered how much of their lives Muggles spent travelling, and what they could be doing with their time if they had access to magic instead. Then he leaned forward so his cloak hung out over his bent knees and unfolded the maps he'd stolen at the airport. He'd need to get from JFK airport to the American Museum of Natural History. It took about half an hour of reading the tourist labels before he found it, and then he wondered how he'd get there. He couldn't Floo since he didn't know where the nearest place he could access one was.

He supposed there must be a bus or a taxi or something he could take. He wouldn't be able to do anything about it until he landed and saw what was available though. He put the matter aside, which left his mind free to cycle onto other thoughts. So much had happened in the last few days. He could feel it whirling through him, round and round until he was almost sick with it. He pulled out the notes from Aoife and reviewed them again, thinking about the people she had identified as possible hosts for War and Conquest.

The thought of Malfoy hovered in the back of his mind, like an itch he couldn't scratch. How the hell was he tied up in all of this? And what sort of a coincidence was it? None of it made sense.

~

The airport, when they landed, was busier than it had been in London. It took him twenty minutes to make his way outside, leaving behind the travellers queuing through customs. In the end, he needed to take a bus and then the subway. That was an experience by itself. More than once he had to squeeze himself into a corner, to avoid being stepped on or jostled. He almost thought it would have been easier to take his cloak off, and be visible, but the very thought of it left him feeling deeply uncomfortable. 

A few hours later, Harry stood at the front steps of the Natural History Museum. It was a huge, imposing building, with stone columns reaching high into the air over a grand entryway. Harry frowned at it and then began walking. That was the Muggle entrance. He knew the one he was looking for would be far less flashy.

The museum opened into a street across from Central Park. It took Harry about fifteen minutes to find what must be the Wizarding entrance. It was a small courtyard in a part of the building that looked much older. The crumbling bricks and stonework reminded him of Hogwarts. There were no Muggles moving around this area, and when Harry concentrated, he could feel the charms wrapped around the space. Instead of pushing him away, they seemed to be doing the opposite, calling him closer. There was something seductive about them, as though they were speaking just to him.

He was about to step closer when he remembered Conor's reaction to his cloak. He'd said Harry was wrapping himself in Death. Harry touched the fabric briefly, fingers almost clutching, before he forced himself to let go. He wasn't sure why, but he didn't want whoever was inside this building to know he had the cloak yet, or maybe at all. He moved back around the side of the building until he was out of sight and then pulled the fabric back, blinking as the bright sunlight stabbed into his eyes without the shadowy barrier filtering it away for him. 

He considered for a second stowing it away in his pack, but the idea of taking it off completely, of not being able to reach up and draw it forward when he needed it, made him too uncomfortable. He left it on, but placed a glamour over himself so that the cloak would appear to be a plain, brown travelling cloak and nothing more. He hesitated a moment longer and then conjured a pair of leather gloves, pulling them on over his hands. He didn't need any of them touching his bare skin, either.

Then, shoulders stiff with discomfort, he made his way back to the Wizarding entrance. He was stopped at the doorway by a figure that materialised out of the shadows. Harry was abruptly glad he'd moved away to change his cloak.

'State your name and purpose,' the man in front of him said, his wand out and pointed at Harry. He was dressed in sharp black robes that were fitted and buttoned at his chest, flaring open at his legs. They looked like Auror robes, and something about the way he held himself made Harry think the man was well trained.

Harry raised both hands, brushing over the runes on his forearms, pushing through the fabric to activate the ones he needed. He didn't pull his wand. He wanted these people to let him in, after all.

'My name is Harry Potter,' he said, watching the dark-haired man in front of him. He showed no reaction to Harry's name, so he continued.

'I've been told to come looking for Blake Williams, your Gatherer. I was sent by Conor Gibbons, from Skellig Michael, in Ireland.'

At those words the man relaxed, lowering his wand slightly, though he didn't put it away. He simply nodded and said, 'Follow me.'

The large wooden door behind him opened with a flick of his wand and Harry stepped into a small chamber containing a cupboard on one wall, a table, and a chair. There were no other doors.

The man crossed to the cupboard and pulled out a small vial. He was shorter than Harry and had to reach slightly for it. He still had his wand in his hand. He held it like someone who knew what he was doing. He gestured Harry to the chair and Harry sat.

'This is Veritaserum,' the man said, indicating the vial. 'I will administer you two drops and ask you a series of questions. If you answer them successfully, you will be allowed inside. If you do not, I will take you into custody. Do you consent?'

Harry eyed the vial and then glanced around the room. It didn't give him any hints about what to do next. He glanced up into the corner opposite him and saw the small, red eye of a Muggle camera, embedded in the ceiling. They were watching him.

'Fine,' he said, and opened his mouth, tilting his head back.

He felt the drops hit his tongue and slide down his throat with the faint saltiness of tears. Fuck, he hated Veritaserum. He could feel it working its way through his body almost immediately, digging into his mind in search of his secrets. He grit his teeth as he tried to corral it mentally. There were some things he would not be willing to share.

'What is your name?' the man asked again.

'Harry Potter,' he repeated, happy to allow the Veritaserum to pull that from him, and glad he hadn't given a fake identity a few minutes earlier.

'What is your business with the New York Chapter?'

'I've come to offer my help and to do what I can to stop two of the _Inaequalis_ ,' Harry said, grimacing as he mangled the name. 'The Horsemen.'

The man in front of him raised an eyebrow but didn't follow up.

'How did you find out about us?'

'I was given directions by Conor Gibbons and Aoife, the Gatherer of the Skellig Michael Sect. I found out about them through my friend Luna Lovegood.' Harry bit off the end of his sentence before the Veritaserum kept him going. He could feel the words crowding his mouth, about how he'd gone to Luna because he was looking for the Hallows. How he had a connection to Death. He swallowed them back down. He'd given the Veritaserum an answer. It would be content with that.

'Why did they give you the directions to find us?'

'Because I'm a Catalyst,' Harry said, voice flat. The words were true, whether he wanted them to be or not.

The man's face twisted briefly in surprise and then he spoke again.

'Do you mean to work for good, for evil, or for balance?'

Harry opened his mouth, but didn't speak right away, not sure he understood the question. Good and evil weren't the terms Conor and Aoife had used. The way they'd explained the cycles of change over time sounded a lot more complex than that.

'I want to stop the Horsemen and stop the deaths,' he said, after a moment. Whether that was the right answer, or not, the man in front of him simply nodded.

'Do you mean any harm to the people within the New York Chapter of the _Statera_?' The question was asked with an air of finality, like this was the last in a list.

Harry shook his head and he could feel the Veritaserum begin to loosen its hold, as it let him answer with a simple but emphatic, 'No.'

The man opposite him glanced backwards, looking up at the camera behind him. The blinking red light changed to green momentarily, and then went dark.

'Welcome to New York,' he said with a brief smile as he reached his hand out. Harry clasped it in a firm handshake, glad he'd thought to put the gloves on. 'I'm Ethan. Sorry for all the security, but we've got a lot going on at the moment. There have been a number of attempts by agents to infiltrate our sect in the last few weeks.'

Ethan turned to his left and made a complicated gesture with his arm. Harry couldn't see the wand movements with the way his body was angled, but a moment later a door materialised on the stone wall. It was dull, grey steel and Ethan stepped forward to push it open. Beyond it, Harry could see a white corridor, lit with electric lights. There was a woman walking up it, towards him. She was tall and had frizzy black hair.

'Hello,' she said, as she reached them. 'I'm Mac. Conor told us you'd be coming. Follow me and I'll show you through. We need to get you up to speed as soon as possible. Things are changing rapidly at the moment and we could do with another one of you out there.'

She'd turned away and started back down the corridor almost before she'd finished speaking. Harry moved after her, something in her words catching at him.

'What do you mean "another one"?' he asked.

'Another Catalyst,' Mac said, not slowing her stride. 'One is not enough when we're going to be up against two forces simultaneously.'

'There are other Catalysts?' Harry asked, feeling something in him twist at that thought. He couldn't tell if it was relief or dread. He didn't have to do this alone. When Conor had talked about bad things happening to Catalysts, Harry had assumed... well, he didn't know what he had assumed. Maybe that this would be his burden to bear until he died of it, and then it would pass to another.

Mac glanced at him, dark eyes unfathomable. 'Of course there are. This way,' she said, indicating a dark metal door that looked no different from the half dozen they'd already passed. 

It opened into a huge room that was filled with people moving back and forth, weaving in and out of each other's space with a purposeful speed that made Harry think of bees in a hive. There was far more tech than magic in the space. Harry could see a huge map of the city on the far wall, with digital images pinned to it and moving around, flashing up photographs and video of whoever the targets were. 

In the centre of the room was a bank of computers, with a dozen people at them, searching and clicking away, lost in the feeds on their screens. They reminded him of Aoife and her dedication to information, but there were so many more of them here. There were glass-fronted rooms lining one wall, all occupied with people who looked to be extremely serious about whatever they were listening to.

Harry glanced back at Mac, but she was already striding across the room, towards the map at the back. He looked around once more, then followed her, reaching to touch the smooth fabric of his cloak for reassurance as he did so.

As they approached the back wall, Harry watched the map, seeing some of the names Aoife had given him in her paperwork—the list of possible hosts. There was a cluster of them meeting right now, and Harry wondered just what they were doing. He remembered the photo with Malfoy in it. A group of the world's rich and powerful people together in one room. Whatever was being decided, wouldn't be good.

As they stepped onto the raised platform, a slim person with spiky purple hair and piercings turned to face them. They looked Harry up and down. 'You're the Catalyst that A mentioned, then?' they said, sounding supremely unimpressed. 'She said you're clueless. You need to get up to speed before you can do anything more than blunder around.' They gestured to a chair off to one side, in front of a table with a pile of papers on it.

'He caused the first rising,' they said to Mac, gesturing at Harry and making a shooing motion towards the chair. 'Did you know that?' They turned to Harry next. 'You caused the first rising. You won't be doing that again. Not under my watch.'

Mac's face didn't change. 'This is Blake,' she said to Harry. 'They'll be seeing to your education. You'll be put into play when they judge that you have sufficient knowledge. Someone will be by later to show you to your room. Have you eaten?'

Harry shook his head, feeling overwhelmed by the speed at which everything was happening. 

'Food will be brought for you.' Mac began to leave, but then turned back. 'Welcome to New York, Catalyst,' she said, with a brief incline of her head, face still cold. 'Let's see that we make the right change, this time.'

Harry felt his anger begin to stir, fighting through the rush of information he was seeing and hearing. Where did these people get off, judging him? He hadn't released the Horseman on purpose. No one had been there holding his hand and telling him what he should or shouldn't be doing. He'd done the best he bloody well could. 

He ground back on the feelings, rubbing the cloak between his fingers and imagining it numbing the anger, hiding it behind a cloud of fog. Getting angry wasn't going to help anyone. These people had things he needed to know.

Blake gestured him into the chair again and then sat down opposite him.

'Right,' they said. 'Let's start like you know nothing and go from there.' They didn't wait for his nod, just pulled the first four sheets of paper off the pile in front of him and laid them out on the table. They had images of riders on horses and a number of the symbols Harry already recognised.

'Four forces for evil. In terms you can understand: Conquest, War, Plague, and Death,' Blake said, jabbing at each in turn with a finger. 'Four forces for good: Law, Order, Abundance, and the Eternal. Following me so far?'

Harry nodded, but his eye had caught on one of the images in front of him. It was the Horseman from his dreams. War. He leaned closer to look at it. The horse was a brighter red than the blood-soaked creature he'd been faced with, but the feeling he got from the image was the same. There was a vicious challenge of combat and violence emanating from the figure on the red horse. War had its great sword raised as its mount reared over a group of people below. There was a triumphant and hungry grin on its skeletal face.

Harry leaned closer to read the caption:

_From the eternal sea he rises,  
creating armies on either shore,  
turning man against his brother,  
until man exists no more._

'Why is it a skeleton?' Harry asked, interrupting the flow of Blake's words to point to the image of War.

They looked at him, nonplussed. 'What?'

'War,' Harry said. 'Why is it depicted as a skeleton? In my dream, it was a man. He had bloody teeth and pale hair.'

Blake reached down to grip the table. 'You dreamed of War?' they asked, voice suddenly hoarse.

'Yes,' Harry said, reaching down to tangle his fingers in his cloak.

Blake's eyes were suddenly razor-sharp. 'This is important, Catalyst,' they said, leaning forward. 'Did it speak to you?'

Harry paused and then nodded slowly. 'It said it would see me soon.'

'Shit,' Blake said. Then again. 'Shit, shit, shit.' They stood and moved to a clock on the wall beside the map, which Harry hadn't noticed. The face of it read _Rising: Approaching_. As Harry watched, Blake clicked something on the side that made the display change to show the words _Rising: Imminent_. The display went red and a light above the map began flashing. All around the room, heads looked over; there was a moment of silence before the activity increased, more furiously than before.

'What does that mean?' Harry said, pushing to his feet to stand beside them.

'If War is taunting you, it means it's close to finishing the tasks it needs to use its host's body for. It's almost ready for you to kill the host and release it like you did for Conquest.' Blake's lip curled at this and suddenly Harry had had enough. Enough of being judged and found wanting for something he knew nothing about. Gods, but he hated being left in the dark.

'I did the best I could,' he growled at the figure next to him. 'No one was helping me. No one told me a single thing about what was going on or what it all meant. I thought I was bringing justice to my son's killer. If you want me to do better next time, fucking _show me how_.' He was spitting the words by the end of it and to his surprise, instead of stepping back, Blake smiled.

'There you are,' they said, looking at him with that _look_ that was as old as time. 'I was beginning to wonder if you had any fight left in you. Right. I'll put you through a proper briefing soon, but here's what we know. The _Inaequalis_ are gearing up for World War Three. The war to end all wars. Wizard versus No-Maj. Magic versus might.'

It was the exact same thing Aoife had predicted.

'I've seen it,' Harry said, reaching for the reassurance of the cloak as he remembered the field of bodies. The memory took all the fire out of him. He remembered the endless piles of dead and their silent screams of accusation.

Blake started to speak but seemed to see something in his face that made them hesitate.

'Right. Well. We have our eye on a number of people who are key players in bringing this to a head: arms dealers, political leaders, terrorist groups, lobbyists, and the like. We've narrowed the list of possible hosts down to eleven.' They waved up at the board and the display changed to show eleven faces, predominantly older, white men. Harry scanned them quickly but then his eyes caught on one. He sucked in a sharp breath.

Malfoy was in the bottom right corner, dressed in an expensive-looking Muggle suit. His hair was shaved close to the sides but left tousled on top and his face was expressionless, eyes hard. The caption under his name said: _David Masterson, political advisor_.

Harry opened his mouth to point him out and then paused, something in him cautioning him against making that connection public. He took a deep breath in, hand shaking as his heart started to beat faster. He could feel tension running through his body, and suddenly, he desperately wanted a smoke. He crossed his arms over his chest to hide the tremor in his hands.

'We assume Conquest will be choosing a new host nearby soon, though we haven't seen any signs yet. We've been watching each of these people constantly for the last few months,' Blake continued, not noticing Harry's moment of recognition. 'But we need you and Rick to get closer to them. You'll be drawn to them if they're hosting War. You won't be able to help yourselves. So far, we've only been able to get near four of them to cross them off the list. This cycle, we're almost certain that War's placed itself inside a high-profile agent. All of these people have magical protection as well, even though half of them are No-Majs. Rick's been having a lot of trouble.'

'Who's Rick?' Harry asked, his eyes straying back to the image of Malfoy. He looked older and harder, as though all the parts of him that cared—that wanted and needed and cried and laughed—had been cast off. He looked nothing like he had the last time Harry had seen him in person, so many years before. James' funeral barely counted. Harry's memory of that moment was so blurred, wrapped in pain and grief. All he remembered was the feeling of Malfoy's body giving way underneath his fist. What the fuck was Malfoy doing mixed up in all of this?

'Rick Hanson. He's our other Catalyst,' Blake said. 'He's out at the moment, trying to get a read on Jackson Saunders.' They flipped their hand at a thickset older man up on the screen. The line below his mugshot said he was a Senator.

'Right,' Harry said, looking back at all of the images. 'So I track them, try and see if I'm drawn to any of them, and then what, if I can't kill them?' He saw Eliška's face again. _Could_ he do that again? Send that hate spreading forth in the form of death?

Blake laughed, a short bark of sound. 'Is that what A told you?'

Harry nodded, remembering Aoife's emphasis on the fact that killing the hosts would only set the force inside them free. He knew the truth of that down to his bones. He would never forget the spectral figure he'd seen wheeling above the crowded square.

'Honestly, they're so soft over there, it's little wonder they've had so many failed cycles. We most certainly _can_ kill the host, but only after you've applied the seal. If you trap the Horseman inside the body and kill the body, you'll stop its ability to re-form. You'll take it out of play for the rest of the cycle.' Their face had a vicious satisfaction as they said that.

'So, in Ireland, they... what?' Harry asked, not understanding.

Blake flapped a hand dismissively. 'They muck around using the seal to separate the force from the host so they can keep the host alive. It's finicky and fails more often than not. Their Catalysts end up doing the opposite of what they meant to.' Blake paused to give him a judgemental look. 'We won't be having any of that soft rubbish from you, will we?'

Harry looked back up at the board of faces, his eyes catching again on Malfoy's unforgiving gaze.

'Show me how the seals work,' was all he said in response.

~

It was two days before Harry was judged as knowledgeable enough to be let outside. He'd been given five of the remaining ten names to investigate. Rick had apparently returned and crossed Saunders off the list while Harry had been practising the forms of the seals. He looked at his list. He knew which one he should track down first; John O'Neill, arms dealer. But there had never been any question in his mind about which name he'd start with. He'd copied every piece of information they had about Malfoy, despite the fact that he wasn't on Harry's list. The sheets he'd stolen were tucked away inside his Mokeskin pouch.

From what Harry could gather, Malfoy was using every cent left in his family coffers to buy his way into the ears of every powerful person in the country. He'd spent the last twelve months embedding himself into American politics under the guise of David Masterson, and he was dangerous. Several people in key positions had died suddenly after meetings with Malfoy, and others had changed their behaviour with a swiftness so dramatic that it indicated magical coercion. Mac's team had compiled a very thick dossier on him, and it made for grim reading.

As he reviewed it, circling and taking notes on the things that stood out to him, Harry found himself wondering just what had happened to Malfoy in the last eight years that had turned him into someone who was capable of this level of vicious manipulation. Then he thought of Lucius Malfoy and stopped being surprised. It was in the blood, after all. Harry had seen it himself—Draco's skill at lying, at telling someone exactly what they wanted to hear, right up until the moment he tore them to pieces with the truth.

Harry shook himself, focusing back on what he was doing. The moment he was far enough away from the _Statera_ headquarters, he slipped into a restaurant, entering the toilets to pull his cloak back up over his head and shoulders. He felt its cool presence flow over his body like water he'd been thirsty for without realising. It soothed a prickling tension inside him that he hadn't even noticed growing. He closed his eyes and relaxed into it, opening them again to the familiar smoky barrier the cloak put between him and the world.

Somehow, the _Statera_ had made modifications to tech that allowed it to co-exist alongside magic. There was a camera in the room he'd been given, so he hadn't been able to wear the cloak to sleep, but something, maybe the images of the Seals carved throughout the building, had kept hooded figures from his dreams. To keep the cloak off out in the open, though, was too much to ask. He relaxed into the comfort of wearing it again and slipped silently out of the restaurant. The papers he'd stolen included Apparition coordinates for a number of points around the city. Apparently Malfoy had established himself a regular routine.

At this time of day, he should be in a business lunch meeting at Masa, a high-class Japanese restaurant which had both Muggle and magical protections at the door, according to the notes on file. Rick hadn't yet managed to get close enough to do more than take a few photos. Harry pulled his cloak tighter as he stepped onto the street, walking down the side of Central Park to make his way to the Time Warner building. 

He hadn't been outside to see the beauty of the park since he arrived. It was slightly jarring to be this close to the living forest and to see it completely enclosed inside another forest made of concrete and steel. He almost wanted to walk into it—to join the people thronging through the park and get lost inside the life of it. As he walked, it called to him, the trees seeming to whisper. An image came into his mind of Jakub hanging in the great, old oak, his guts sown into the earth below him. Harry shivered and turned away from the park.

Malfoy couldn't have had anything to do with that, could he? Harry remembered the fifteen bodies, bleeding out all over the Manor. He remembered the notes in the pouch at his side, linking Malfoy to many more deaths. He needed to figure out what the fuck was going on.

Harry turned his attention to the streets around him, trying to gauge the mood of the people he passed. Despite the fact that it was a bright, warm day, people were hurrying to their destinations and most of the faces he saw were grim. It was as though they knew that something was coming for them. The first Preservation attacks had happened on US soil, the day before. They had come on the heels of another forty-two magical deaths at the hands of Muggles across the country. Those who were calling for moderation were finding it increasingly hard to be heard in the face of the persecution. 

The reprisal attacks underneath the Preservation symbol had been the talk of the American chapter. There had been Wizard-on-Muggle violence reported in three major cities so far. MACUSA had cracked down immediately, but Harry could see the same signs of hatred, anger, and fear; the ones Europe had hosted for months. Except that he knew here, built on a foundation of racism and intolerance, they would flare to life far quicker. Here, as well, they would be fanned by the flames of rage from across the ocean. _Who the hell had Conquest re-manifest into?_

He put those thoughts from his mind. The _Statera_ could worry about the bigger picture and how to calm things down. His only job was to find the agent hosting War and take the force out of action for the cycle. He could do that... he hoped he could, anyway.

Harry ignored the niggling feeling of guilt in the back of his mind that said that Malfoy wasn't even on his list, and that what he was doing right now—chasing him down, instead of following the other five leads—was the exact opposite of doing his job.

As he got closer to the Time Warner building, he found himself getting more and more nervous. He could feel his hands beginning to shake, and he shoved them into his pockets under his cloak. He was fine, he told himself. He just hadn't had anything to drink or smoke in a few days, was all. This was just his body's reaction to that. Nothing else.

He made his way inside and up to the top floor, where the restaurant was located, and stood near the entrance for a moment, catching his breath and trying to slow his racing heartbeat. Malfoy may not even be inside. Harry tried to gather his focus. He could do this. Getting inside was no more difficult than teasing out the solution to a curse. 

He studied what was in front of him, noting the Japanese designs carved into the doors of the entrance. He could see the symbols of power entwined with the flowing patterns. There was a man standing beside the door, looking out with the gaze of a professional. Harry watched the entryway as well. He'd prefer to come in the main door. The staff entrances would likely be warded to specific magical signatures, or facial recognition in the case of any Muggles working here. The main doors, by their nature, would need to be more forgiving of strangers.

He waited fifteen minutes before he got his chance. A group of four arrived, stepping off the escalator and into the entryway for the restaurant. Harry slipped in behind them, moving silently, watching the doorman the whole time. One of the group showed him some sort of token and Harry could feel the magical residue emanating from it from a metre away. The doorman studied it for just a moment before he opened the double doors.

Harry walked in behind the group, as closely as he dared. As he approached the wards, he emptied his mind, the way he would right before he pulled the threads of a curse apart. He was not a threat. He meant no one any harm. He was nothing. He may as well not be here.

He held his breath and held his calm, and in the space of a few heartbeats, he was through and into the restaurant. He took a few steps away from the group, moving over to a wall, and surveyed the room. It wasn't as large as he expected. There were around thirty people in the restaurant, spread out among the tables. On one side of the room were large windows, looking out onto the city. From the ceiling hung a wooden lighting design that ran almost the length of the space and made him think of a serpent, the way it undulated. The whole restaurant spoke of a tasteful display of money and power.

Harry looked at the people next, getting exactly the same impression from them. They reminded him of those he sometimes worked for, who called him into their mansions to deal with their old heirlooms. The people in this room had that same sense of entitled arrogance. It was in everything from the way they dressed to the way they held themselves.

His eyes flitted from person to person, until he found what he was looking for. He felt his heart stop in his chest for a moment as he saw a slim man seated near the window, his hair almost white, his posture rigid. He could only see the back of the man's head as he tilted it to say something to the man opposite him, but Harry knew. This was Malfoy. He'd found him. Abruptly, the nausea came curling back, more powerfully than before, and for a moment, Harry was worried he would be sick. He pushed the impulse away. He was better than this. He was more in control than this.

He pushed away from the wall, shaking his head to ground himself. He needed to get closer, to see Malfoy's face, to hear what he was talking about. He wouldn't be able to exclude him from the list by looking at the back of his head.

He slipped between the diners silently. Nobody even glanced towards him. It was as if he wasn't there at all. He kept his eyes off Malfoy as he moved, concentrating on where he was going. He couldn't afford to be found here if he cocked up and bumped into someone. It took him a few minutes to find a vantage point beside a pillar, near the windows. He was about three metres away from Malfoy, close enough that he'd be able to hear anything Malfoy and his companion said, provided they didn't whisper.

Harry leaned against the wall and then looked up and into the face of Draco Malfoy for the first time in a year. He took in the sight of him. He was smiling at his lunch companion, a dark-haired, slightly balding man in a military uniform. The smile was sharp on Malfoy's face, and there was something cruel around the edges of it. His hair was the same as it had been in the photo Harry had seen—artfully styled, probably in the latest fashion. Harry rolled his eyes at the thought. But he couldn't help noticing it emphasised the lines of Malfoy's cheekbones and the angles of his face in a way that made him look harshly beautiful. His suit, charcoal, with a white, open-necked shirt, fit his shoulders in a way that clearly said it was expensive and had been tailored to him.

Malfoy looked every inch like someone who had been born to money. He looked like a weapon; something that was beautiful from afar, but if you came too close, would cut you to pieces. For just a moment, Harry had a memory of sitting on the back porch of Grimmauld Place, with a Draco who was dressed in a pair of Harry's joggers and a t-shirt that was far too loose on him, picking chips out of a wrapper with his fingers. His hair had been soft then, ruffled from Harry's hands in it, gripping him to pull him closer.

Harry shook his head, forcing the memory away. That Draco was a lifetime ago. It may as well be a different person from the man in front of him. He needed to know what was happening now. He concentrated, picking up the threads of the conversation.

'General Andrews, surely you can see the way the winds are blowing,' Malfoy said, picking up his glass of wine and taking a sip.

'There are two sides to this thing,' he continued, his voice a confident drawl. 'You know that and I know that. The question is whether you want to be on the losing side.'

The man in front of Malfoy was silent, but Harry could see the interest in the lines of his body, in the way he leant forward and his knuckles whitened slightly as he gripped at the table. It seemed Malfoy could see the same signs, as he leaned back in his seat and took another sip of wine, the hint of a smile at the edges of his mouth.

'Congress will vote for war,' Malfoy said, raising one smooth eyebrow. 'There have been too many attacks on US soil already. People are scared and now is the time to show strength. What we need to do is make sure that we show the right kind of strength.' Malfoy paused, and his smile had a coldness to it that made Harry shiver. 'This is a time to make history.'

The man—Andrews—murmured something, and Harry took a step closer to listen.

'—have a lot to lose,' Andrews said, reaching for his own glass of wine and taking a deep gulp.

Malfoy smiled again, that razor-sharp smile. 'General Andrews,' he said, his eyes dark. 'The sweetest of wins are the ones where we have the most to lose, are they not?'

Andrews was silent and Malfoy leaned in, lowering his voice. Harry took another step closer. What the hell was Malfoy talking about? What kind of strength was needed? Was there really going to be a vote for war? Harry thought of the image on the news reel—Malfoy standing in the background of an arms deal between the United States and Russia. Had he been more than just a background player in that process, too?

'Come by tonight,' Malfoy said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling a piece of paper and a pen out and scribbling something down. 'There are a few things I want to show you that I think will help you make up your mind.'

He slid the piece of paper across the table and Harry took another two silent steps forward, until he was almost touching Andrews. Harry's heart was hammering so loudly that he thought they might hear him, but they were both oblivious. Andrews was looking down at the table in front of him and Malfoy was watching Andrews. Harry's eyes were caught by the look on Malfoy's face. It was as though he were a predator, waiting for his prey to take that final, irrevocable step into his grasp.

Andrews glanced around swiftly and then reached out to take the slip of paper. Harry glanced down at it as he did, noting the details on it.

_Plaza Hotel_  
_Royal Suite_

Malfoy had signed underneath it, though the signature wasn't his. It must be the fake name he was using, Harry realised. Andrews palmed the piece of paper into his pocket, giving Malfoy a nod that had a hint of a shake in it. He braced his hands on the table, and Harry realised with a second to spare that he was about to stand. He took several steps back, quickly and silently, and continued to watch.

'Nine, then, Andrews?' Malfoy said, as the man turned to leave. 'I'll look forward to it.' There was a light in Malfoy's eyes, as he said the words, that Harry found disturbing. He moved back again, leaning against the pillar he'd started at. Malfoy watched Andrews until he'd left the room, and then lifted his wine glass, draining it. He placed it back on the table and then sat, looking at the seat Andrews had vacated.

He was still for a long moment, unnaturally so. It was as though he had been hit with an _Immobulus_. His face twisted, as though he was struggling with something internally. Then he blinked, his face smoothed out and he moved his chair back, standing gracefully and pulling his suit jacket back into place with a sharp tug. He made his way back through the restaurant swiftly, nodding or murmuring a word to several people as he passed them. 

Harry didn't even have to think. As soon as Malfoy moved, he was following him, trailing behind. He needed to see where he went next. Malfoy strode to a door beside the entrance, which Harry hadn't noticed, but which was clearly magical, from the wards Harry could feel buzzing over it. Malfoy waved his hand in a careless gesture and the door opened for him.

Harry frowned. Malfoy never had been much good at wandless magic. It was one of the things he used to get shirty about, when Harry did one of the few spells he knew without thinking about it. Another thing that had changed in the years since they'd seen each other.

He followed Malfoy through, not sure where he was going and not sure what his own plan was. Was he going to confront Malfoy? Ask him what was going on? What he was doing here and what the damned cryptic conversation he'd just had meant?

The very thought of confronting Malfoy, of speaking to him face to face, made Harry feel sick. He couldn't. He was here to watch Malfoy. To see if he had any link to the Horsemen, that was all. If he blew his cover and let Malfoy know he was here, he wouldn't be able to do that. That was the reason he couldn't talk to Malfoy.

He was two steps into the space when he realised it was a travelling room, and then he cursed as he heard the crack of Malfoy's Apparition.

 _Buggering fuck_. He never had been any good at tracking Apparition. He stared at the place Malfoy had disappeared from a moment longer, before he cursed to himself again and turned away. There was no point trying to guess where he'd gone to now. Harry would just have to track him that night. Nine o'clock, he'd said. At the Plaza.

In the meantime, Harry would have to do something about the actual job he'd been assigned. He sighed and Apparated away.

~

It was late afternoon when he walked through the backdoor to the Museum. Ethan let him in with a smile and a query about his hunting. Harry smiled back, but didn't answer. When he was inside, he made his way to Blake, installed at their computer terminal at the back of the room. There was a new banner across the top of the digital display, stating there was now active and ongoing violence in six US cities. Harry glanced at it, then away, the urgency of his task prickling at him.

Blake looked up at his approach, one pierced eyebrow raised in question. 

'It's not John O'Neill,' Harry said, nodding his head at the swarthy man with a scar across his cheek, listed along the bottom of the board. He made no mention of Malfoy. Malfoy wasn't on Harry's list, after all. Besides, Harry felt no closer to understanding just how he was involved than he had before he came face to face with him.

Blake leaned back in their chair, crossing their arms. 'One day, you've been out. How do you know it's not O'Neill?'

Harry shrugged, refusing to be drawn in. 'You told me I was a Catalyst. You told me I'd "know" if I was close enough. I'm telling you, I was close enough. Believe me, or waste more time trying to figure it out yourself. It's not him.'

Blake gave him a sceptical look but nodded.

'I need to know about someone called General Andrews,' Harry said, thinking of the man Malfoy had been meeting with.

Blake hummed and turned to their computer, tapping away for a few moments. Half a dozen headshots came up on the big screen behind them. Harry scanned them quickly and then nodded to the one in the bottom left. 

'Him,' he said. 'Joseph Andrews.' The title under his name said 'Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff'. 'Who is he?'

Blake clicked a few more buttons and a bio came up. 'He's President Johnson's Senior Military Advisor,' Blake said. 'Why?'

Harry frowned, eyes flicking over the information on the screen. 'I think he might be connected to one of my names,' Harry said absently, as he took it in. What the hell was Malfoy doing making deals with the guy who set the military direction for the entire bloody country?

Blake frowned, but didn't push him, instead they glanced across the room and raised their arm, gesturing to someone who had just walked in. Harry turned to see a tall, well-built man making his way towards them. He was dressed in cargo pants and a tight black t-shirt and his blond hair was cropped close to his head. Something about the way he walked made Harry think of the Muggle military. He wondered if he was MACUSA.

'Rick,' Blake said, when the man reached them. 'Meet Harry, our newest Catalyst.'

Rick's eyes snapped to Harry's at that. They were a pale blue and there was nothing warm in them as he smiled in greeting and reached out his hand.

Harry returned his handshake, glad he'd taken to wearing his gloves constantly. Rick squeezed his hand in a way that was clearly meant to intimidate and dominate him. Harry let him, the slight sneer on Rick's face telling him what he needed to know. The man was a bully.

'Hi,' Harry said, withdrawing his hand and crossing his arms.

'Nice to meet you,' Rick said, his voice deep, and his accent making it broader and slower. He was clearly American, but Harry didn't think he was from New York.

'Harry's crossed O'Neill off the list,' Blake said.

Rick narrowed his eyes. 'How did you get near the prick? He has three rings of rotating guards. Bastard's the most well-protected No-Maj I've ever seen.'

Harry shrugged, deliberately not reaching for his cloak. The longer he kept the fact that he had it a secret, the more right that decision felt. 

'Maybe I'm just better at surveillance than you,' he said, letting a little bit of his instant dislike for the man leak into his voice.

'Bullshit,' Rick said. 'You didn't even see him.'

Harry shrugged. 'I don't care if you believe it or not,' he turned slightly to include Blake in this statement as well. 'I told you. I saw him up close and nothing about him made me think he could be holding a Horseman. He's Muggle. He has no magical aura at all. He wasn't acting off. He didn't give me any sort of feeling of attraction or concern. I've seen one of the Horsemen in the flesh. I know what I'm looking for.'

'That's right,' Rick said. 'You're the one that fucked up the kill for the first rising.'

Harry opened his mouth and then closed it again. He was sick of defending himself. And he'd be damned if he defended himself to this idiot. The fact that Rick was right just made him grit his teeth harder.

Rick stepped closer, until he was in Harry's space, clearly trying to loom over him as an intimidation tactic. Harry looked up at him, feeling something dark coil inside his own chest.

'Perhaps you should just stay out of my way, _Harry_ ,' Rick said, that same disrespect back in his voice. 'I've been training for these kills for the last year. Worst comes to worst, I'll just Seal and take out every one of the targets and we can worry about who it was later.'

Harry caught Blake's frown out of the corner of his eye. He felt his own anger rise in response to those words.

'Perhaps _you_ should stay out of _my_ way, _Rick_ ,' Harry said, and he knew his voice was cold and hard. 'I have seen and done things you haven't experienced in your worst nightmares. I killed someone I could have saved when I freed the first Horseman. I'm not going to let you kill a bunch of other people because you're too fucking lazy or stupid to tell where the next one is hosted.'

Harry saw it in the man's eyes. The mercurial shift as rage rose, overcoming rational thought. A second later Rick's fist connected with his cheek. Harry tilted his head so that it was a glancing blow and then stepped in closer, driving his own fist up hard into Rick's stomach, sending the air gushing from him in a huff. He pulled the man forward as he bent in response to the punch and rammed his knee into the same place his fist had just been. Rick groaned and moved to grab Harry's leg.

Harry stepped back a pace and grabbed the back of Rick's t-shirt, pulling him vertical and then slamming him back down so that his head hit the table in front of him and he slumped to the floor.

Harry stood, breathing harshly for a moment, the adrenaline still pumping through him, then he straightened, looking first into Blake's shocked face, and then out over the normally busy room. All eyes were on him, and they held varying levels of shock, anger or strangely, in some, satisfaction.

Harry turned more fully, to face the room.

'I am a Catalyst,' he said, letting his voice ring out. 'I will let you guide me and help me. But _I_ will be the one who makes the changes. Death, for the sake of death,' Harry's eyes flicked back to Rick's still-prone form and he felt his anger stir again, 'is not something I will tolerate.'

There were a few nods from the people watching him, and then two stepped forward, clearly making their way toward Rick. Harry spared him another glance then looked back at Blake, determination in his face.

'Take O'Neill off your board,' he said, voice leaving no room for argument. 'I'm going back out.'

~

Harry's blood was still pumping as he stalked down Central Park West, his cloak wrapped tightly around him. He thought briefly about Apparating closer to the Plaza, but he had about an hour until Malfoy would be meeting with General Andrews, and he could feel the adrenaline from his confrontation with Rick still pumping through him. He tapped out a smoke and sucked back on it deeply, breathing it out as he walked.

He shouldn't have done what he did, he knew. But the guy was an absolute twat. Harry couldn't just stand by as he talked about killing a bunch of people, like it was nothing. He remembered his own feelings after he'd killed the woman hosting Conquest. He'd been so muddied beforehand, so tangled in his own mind and his thoughts of what was needed. He knew, now, that the Horseman had been influencing him, and wondered if it was the same for Rick. Was he under the spell of War already? Was that why he was so willing to kill without worrying about the consequences?

Harry passed a newspaper stand as he walked and he paused for just a moment, scanning the headlines. He vanished the butt of his cigarette and leaned closer.

_DEATH TOLL RISES AS VIOLENCE SPREADS_

_AMERICA UNDER SIEGE FROM NEW THREAT_

_PRESERVATION SYMBOL: THE NEW SWASTIKA?_

_WILL A DIVIDED CONGRESS VOTE FOR WAR?_

The pictures attached to them were grim; surging crowds, burnt out cars, people running, screaming from those who pursued them. He didn't need to see the Wizarding newspapers to know he would get the exact same story of fear and hate and violence from the other side. It was Prague, all over again. Harry turned away. He had to figure out how to stop this.

 _Stalking Malfoy probably isn't the answer,_ whispered a voice in his mind. _Perhaps you should be doing your actual job and tracking down the people you have on_ your _list._

He ignored it. He could track down the next person on his list after he was finished with Malfoy tonight. But he had to see him first. The idea of not doing so made him feel like something was prickling under his skin, just this side of painful.

The Plaza wasn't warded, but Harry could tell that a number of the security staff were Wizards, just by watching them. He didn't bother trying to make his way up to Malfoy's room. He knew it would have protections he couldn't breach by himself. Instead he stood against the wall in a place which would give him a clear view of the door, and settled in to watch.

It was only fifteen minutes before he caught sight of the man Malfoy had been having lunch with, as he walked in the door. He was shorter than Harry had realised and he was out of his military uniform this time, instead his plain black suit jacket was tight over the curve of his stomach. He walked with the air of someone who wasn't quite sure that they were making the right choice, but despite that, he strode across the foyer to the reception desk.

Harry moved closer to him, so that he was standing behind Andrews as he pulled the slip of paper, with Malfoy's fake signature on it, from his pocket. The woman at the desk glanced at it and then gestured Andrews to the lift. 'Show that to the man inside and he will scan you up. Thank you for your visit.' Her smile didn't reach her eyes, and she turned her attention to the next person approaching the desk.

Harry followed closely behind Andrews as he entered the lift and then moved to one side. The attendant was a Wizard as well. Harry could feel the magic in him. He assessed Andrews with a quick glance and Harry saw him relax slightly as he realised Andrews was a Muggle. He smiled at the proffered paper and scanned his pass against the console for the lift, pushing a button with an elaborate letter 'R' on it.

Harry stepped out of the lift behind Andrews and shivered, biting his cheek to stifle his discomfort as an illusion-shattering spell flooded over him. He glanced at the lift attendant but was relieved to see that his eyes were casting over Andrews and around the room, completely ignoring Harry, a few paces in front of him. The spell had been a powerful one. Harry didn't think any other form of concealment or disillusionment would have survived it.

As Harry watched, the attendant made a subtle gesture with his hand. Harry turned to the door opposite them to realise it had been a brief dismantling of the wards. Harry would bet they'd give Andrews approximately a minute to step inside that door before they snapped back into place.

'Enjoy your evening, sir,' came a murmured voice from behind them. 

Andrews didn't look back, and neither did Harry. He moved on silent feet. If he was left outside the door, he didn't think he'd have a hope of getting in, not without a day or two to pick the wards apart, and he didn't have that sort of time.

The door in front of them was cream with gold inlay and the plaque on the door proclaimed the significance of the space in flowing etching. Andrews reached for the ornate handle, pushing it open to reveal an entryway, done in the same cream and gold, wall sconces and chandeliers lighting the space. A huge silver vase displayed a bouquet of lilies on a table in the centre of the entrance. Harry could hear the lilting sounds of piano music coming from somewhere inside. The sound tugged at him, catching at something in his memory, just out of reach.

There was no sight of Malfoy in the entry and Andrews hesitated for a moment. Harry slipped in behind him and waited for him to close the door and continue through. He wanted Andrews to go first. Who knew what sort of situation the man was walking into. Malfoy could have hidden all sorts of traps in the rooms. Harry didn't want to be the one to spring them.

The melody coming from the other room continued. Something in it sounded sad. Yearning. Harry could feel his memory stirring further. He knew this song. He followed Andrews and the entry opened up into a large, lavishly decorated room. There were ornate chairs in a deep green velvet, edged with gold, scattered around the room, but Harry's eyes were drawn instantly by Malfoy sitting at the piano on the far side of the room. His fingers moved smoothly over the keys and his eyes were closed.

Harry watched him play, feeling like he couldn't look away, even if he'd wanted to. He remembered how he knew this particular music. He'd come across Draco playing it, one night, a few weeks after his mother had died. His eyes were closed, just like now and he'd had tears running down his cheeks.

Harry had dropped by after a night at the Leaky, half-drunk and looking for a fuck, and instead he had watched, spellbound, for what felt like hours, as Draco played out his pain.

He watched it again now, felt the emotions flowing from him, and wondered what Draco was grieving this time.

Andrews stopped at the edge of the room and cleared his throat.

The music broke off abruptly and Draco opened his eyes, standing smoothly. All of the emotion in the room seemed to dry up, the atmosphere becoming instantly sharper. Malfoy smiled, but the gesture didn't reach his eyes. He was dressed in the same pair of charcoal trousers from earlier that day but he'd removed his suit jacket. His shirt was rolled up to his elbows. Harry looked down as he walked across the room, surprised to see Malfoy's Mark on display. 

He'd never showed it openly like that when he and Harry had been together. He hadn't even let Harry see it anything more than accidentally. After they'd started taking their clothes off—after the thing between them had become more than quick, hard fucks in the loo—it had taken Harry a while to realise that Draco always placed his body just so, or turned the lights out as they started to undress. It had been months before Draco would stand naked in front of him and not try to hide himself.

Harry's thoughts were broken by Malfoy's voice.

'Hello, Joseph, can I offer you a drink?' Malfoy gestured to the liquor cabinet off to one side, through a doorway into a room hosting a dining table that seated ten.

'Hello, David,' Andrews replied. 'Yes. Please.' 

Harry saw the man's nervous movement as Malfoy turned away. Andrews took a deep breath, as though to steady himself.

'You're a gin drinker, no?' Malfoy's voice floated back into the room, from where he busied himself at the cabinet.

'Yes, please,' Andrews said, and Harry saw him swallow heavily.

Harry took the chance while Malfoy was turned away to move to a space between a chair and the wall. It would give him a good view of the whole room. Night had fallen, but Malfoy hadn't bothered to draw the curtains. Harry could see the lights of the city outside. The place he was standing was reflected in the windows opposite him and his absence from the reflection calmed him. This would be fine. He would watch Malfoy, find out more about what he was doing, and then he would get out. 

Malfoy returned with a gin in one hand and something that looked like whisky in the other. Harry frowned. Malfoy had never been a whisky drinker, not when Harry had known him anyway. He'd always turned his nose up at Harry's drink of choice.

'So,' Malfoy said, gesturing Andrews to a chair and taking one opposite him. 'We both know why you're here. Shall we cut to the chase?'

He took a sip of his drink as he watched Andrews, who stared down at his own glass, as though he didn't want to meet Malfoy's eyes. Harry returned his attention to Malfoy, seeing in the lines of his body and the restrained eagerness on his face, something that reminded him of the fierceness of a hunting cat as it stalked.

'You have something I want,' Malfoy said, tilting his head back and swallowing down his drink in one smooth slide. He placed it on the small, wooden table beside himself and reached up to the collar of his shirt. Harry watched Malfoy's fingers move, sipping a button from its hole, as he remembered the earlier conversation in the restaurant, and the mention of a vote, and a show of strength. 

Then he made the link to the headline he'd just read, on the street outside. _Will a divided Congress vote for war?_ That wasn't what Malfoy was angling for, was it? Harry felt dread and a growing sense of inevitability spreading through him. Judging by the way he was living and the people he was meeting, Malfoy had the right sort of money and connections to sway people to his aims. 

Malfoy spoke again, jolting Harry from his thoughts. He was looking directly into Andrews' eyes and the look on his face was calculating.

'I have something you want,' Malfoy continued as he slipped the button loose, his hands moving down to the next and slipping it free as well.

'If you give me what I want,' Malfoy said, his eyes dark and his fingers smooth as they undid button, after button in an inexorable descent, 'I'll give you what you want.' He smiled at those words and Harry's eyes flicked to Andrews, to find him staring, almost spellbound at Malfoy's naked chest. 

Harry couldn't blame him. Malfoy looked decadent, with his legs spread, feet planted on the floor in front of him. His shirt hung open at the sides, displaying the lines of his body, the hardness of his chest and abs, the silvery sheen of scars which seemed to entice more than they repelled. They promised danger.

Harry had a vivid memory of kissing his way down those scars, whispering his apologies into them. He forced it away. He needed to focus on what was happening here. What it all _meant_.

'My testimony,' Andrew said, and Harry thought his voice sounded hoarse. His drink was clutched in one white-knuckled hand, untouched and forgotten.

'Your testimony,' Malfoy confirmed, pushing himself gracefully to his feet and letting his shirt slide off his shoulders, falling behind him. 'America is on the brink of war. You are beset by dangers within and without.' Malfoy moved his hands to the buckle of his belt and drew it out slowly, watching Andrew as a hawk might watch a rabbit.

'To combat your enemies, you need to bring every possible force at your disposal to bear. You and I both know this. What harm is there, in gaining something you want, to help confirm that choice in your mind?'

Once his fly was open, Malfoy paused, hands on the verge of pushing his trousers down and off. Harry could see his darker blond pubic hair and realised he wasn't wearing any pants. He never had liked them, Harry remembered. Said they ruined the line of his clothes.

'And you want me, so _very_ much, don't you Joseph?' Malfoy murmured. 'I've seen you watching me. I've seen your hunger. You don't get to sate your desires very often, do you Joseph?' Malfoy's voice was almost hypnotic and Harry flicked his attention to Andrews, to see he looked spellbound.

Malfoy arched an eyebrow at Andrews, poised at the edge of no return and then Andrews spoke, setting the glass down hard so his drink slopped over the edge as he did.

'Yes,' he said, voice thick with want, 'I'll say what you need me to say.' He stood abruptly, shrugging out of his own suit jacket and pulling at his tie with fumbling fingers.

Malfoy smiled, coldly, and pushed his trousers down, stepping out of his shoes as he did so. His cock lay soft between his legs and Harry glanced at it for just a moment, before ripping his eyes away. It seemed wrong, to look. Obscene.

'You're mine,' Malfoy agreed and Harry knew what he was saying went so much further than what was about to happen here. Malfoy would own this man when he was done with him. The truth of what he was about to witness finally sank in. Malfoy was going to fuck Andrews. As that thought occurred to him, he felt suddenly, intensely, uncomfortable. He shouldn't be standing here, staring at Malfoy's naked body while he displayed himself for another man.

Harry looked away as Andrews shed more clothing, stumbling slightly as he divested himself of his pants. He could hear the touch of skin and the wet slickness of mouths moving together. Then there was a moan and Harry knew it wasn't Malfoy. It didn't sound like him.

He wanted to leave the room. Surely he'd seen what he needed to. He couldn't leave the suite, not until the wards parted to let Andrews back through, but that didn't mean he had to stay and watch this, did it?

He felt like he was frozen in place. Malfoy had turned and was walking towards the piano. Harry glanced up at the movement and his gaze caught on the muscles of Malfoy's arse and thighs, rippling as he moved. He hadn't lost any of his lean power since Harry had last seen him like this and the sight of him was hard to look away from. 

He frowned though, as Andrews pushed Malfoy against the sleek, black instrument and Malfoy boosted himself up so he was sitting on the edge of it. They weren't going to—Malfoy had treated the piano he had at the Manor with _reverence_. He'd cleaned it himself, not even wanting the House Elves to touch it. He'd had Harry sit, once, and had stood behind him, placing his fingers on the keys as he showed him how to play a simple melody, something short and happy. He'd placed kisses on Harry's neck in between each of his attempts, but the moment Harry had tried to turn it into anything more serious, he'd moved them both away from the instrument with chiding words.

'I made myself ready for you,' Malfoy said, jerking Harry's thoughts back into the present. He watched, unable to look away as Andrews' mouth moved to Malfoy's neck, biting and sucking, and one hand moved down between his legs.

'There's no need to—yes, just like that. Straight in.'

There was a grunt from Andrews and his arse clenched suddenly as he drove himself up into Malfoy and stilled.

Malfoy's hands were on the piano behind himself, holding much of his own weight, and his face was impassive as Andrews drew back and began to thrust. Harry watched, unable to help himself as Malfoy wrapped his legs around Andrews' waist and Andrews moved his hands to Malfoy's hips, gripping him tightly as he began to fuck harder into him.

Andrews returned his face to Malfoy's neck and Harry watched as Malfoy made all the right sounds, moans and gasps and words of encouragement. But throughout it all, his face retained that same impassiveness. His eyes moved almost constantly, roaming around the room, staring past Andrews' shoulder, as though he were watching for something.

Andrews began to thrust faster, grunting as he did. He put his head up, clearly looking for a kiss. Malfoy supplied it to him, but the look in his eyes didn't change, as he stared beyond Andrews and let his body be used.

Harry felt something cold slide its way into his chest. This—sex with Draco wasn't like this. It was heat and laughter and losing control and pushing and shoving and so much touch he thought he could die from it. It wasn't some cold, passionless thing that Malfoy endured. The sight of it made him feel sick. He couldn't watch it anymore.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus his mind. There were other things he could be doing right now, with the opportunity presenting itself. He needed to stop thinking about Malfoy and what he did with his body now, and instead think about what he had to do—find a way to follow Malfoy the next time he left these rooms.

Harry moved swiftly to the pile of discarded clothing on the floor, crouching so he, and it, were hidden by the velvet-covered armchair Malfoy had been sitting in. Then he patted gently, trying to disturb the fabric as little as possible.

When he felt the outline of Malfoy's wand he closed his eyes and breathed a silent sigh of relief. He slipped his finger into the concealed pocket in the pair of trousers, so that he was just touching the end of the wand, then he released the slowest and most gentle tracing spell he'd ever cast.

He couldn't take the risk that Malfoy would feel the magic. He should be sufficiently distracted by his current activity as well as the serious levels of magic wrapping the entire suite, for the casting to go unnoticed.

When it was done, Harry straightened slightly, so he was looking over the back of the couch. Andrews had his face buried in Malfoy's neck again, but his arm was moving in a rhythm with his own, increasingly fast thrusts. 

He was jerking Malfoy off, Harry realised, pushing fully to his feet and beginning to back away. He watched, unable to stop himself as Malfoy's body tensed and he came, words spilling from his lips about how good it was and that Andrews should go faster, deeper, fill him up.

All the while his eyes stayed empty.

~

Harry didn't go back to the _Statera_ Headquarters. He couldn't. Not after what he'd just seen. Instead he hunted the next name on his list: Marcus Langdon. He was a dead end as well. But at least the focus of getting through security, hunting through his rooms for information and standing over his sleeping body to get a read on him was enough to take his mind off Malfoy.

At around four in the morning, Harry found a hotel lobby that was open, made his way to a vacant room and fell into an exhausted heap, his cloak wrapped tightly around himself. He wanted to sleep but couldn't. The things he'd seen and done in the last few days kept cycling back through his mind in an endless loop.

What was going on with Malfoy? Was he just connected to American politics in the same way his father had been in the Ministry—deals and favours and manipulation—or was it something more than that? He was different now, that much was clear, but was it the difference of getting older, and harder, or was it something more sinister? 

Harry thought about himself and snorted. Gods knew he wasn't the person he had been eight years ago. He wondered if the old him would even recognise who he'd become now.

The thought that Malfoy was hosting War was mad... wasn't it? Yes, Malfoy was different. Weren't they all? It was too much of a coincidence that Harry would cross half the world only to be brought head to head against Malfoy. Malfoy wasn't engineering a vote to send America to war. The idea that he could—that he would _want_ to—was crazy.

But there was something about the man that called to him. Blake had said that would happen if he came into contact with one of the Horsemen. Was it what was happening now? It felt like the same need Harry had always felt around Malfoy; the need to know what he was doing. The need to know _who he was_.

He tried to focus on the niggling doubt that the pull he was feeling now was just an extension of that old obsession—was just his inability to separate himself from his old enemy-turned-lover. Was it more than that? The _Statera_ must have put him on their list for a reason. Harry still didn't know yet if he believed there was a force inside Malfoy, directing his every move, but he couldn't help the way he was drawn to him. And so many of the things he was doing now just didn't fit with Harry's memories of him.

And where was Scorpius? Harry had made a quick trip around Malfoy's suite as Andrews had been getting re-dressed and he'd seen no sign of a child's bedroom. Malfoy had disappeared with his son a year ago, and now he spent his time without him. Was the boy even still alive? He wondered if he could ask Blake to search for him. He could give them the memory of the photo of him on the broom with Malfoy and they could see if any of their images showed him... 

The thought that Malfoy's son might be dead made him think of James again. He was distressed to realise it had been a day or so since James was strongly in his thoughts. The realisation felt like a betrayal. He was doing all of this for James. Would do anything to bring him back.

That idea spun into another, as Harry closed his eyes, bringing James' face to life in his mind, humming a lullaby to him as he thought. He was on the edge of sleep, soothed by the thought of rocking James in the chair in his room, when the image of the Resurrection Stone slipped into the back of his mind. Once it was there, it was like a thorn in a sock, scratching away at him, until he looked at it more closely.

He knew he couldn't think about using it, knew that was the way to madness, but the possibility of holding James again, and the aching hope of that thought, wouldn't leave him. He curled himself into a tighter ball, trying to hide away from it.

His last thought as he drifted into sleep was to wonder, if he brought James back, whether he would continue to grow and change—whether he would be given the life that had been stolen.

~

Harry was standing in the middle of Central Park, on a broad, paved walkway, with huge trees to either side, their branches reaching toward the sky.

He blinked and the walkway was crowded with people, running, pushing, screaming and fighting.

He blinked again and the trees were on fire, the flames reaching towards the sky.

He blinked again and someone grabbed him by the arm, pulling him around to shout desperate words into his face.

'Harry,' Malfoy said, grey eyes full of desperation. 'Harry, please, find him.'

He blinked and Malfoy was gone. The walkway was full of bodies and the trees were blackened skeletal figures.

He blinked and an armoured figure on a blood-drenched horse stood a few paces away from him. It smiled and its teeth were pointed like needles.

'You're out of time, Catalyst,' it said and its voice held an implacable certainty.

Harry jerked awake to the sound of a fire alarm blaring through the hotel. He sat bolt upright, pulling his hood back on with a curse and then rushed out of the room and downstairs. The foyer was chaos, as people poured down from the rooms above. Harry was buffeted as people moved into the space he was occupying, and he pushed through the panic, heading for the door.

A voice came over the hotel's announcement system.

'New York City is under attack. Please stay calm. The Central Park area is the centre of the violence. Please stay calm and leave this hotel. Make your way away from this district. I repeat, New York City is under attack. Central Park is the centre of the violence. Head east on 59th Street to the river. You are not safe here.'

Harry felt a sick certainty flood through him and he pushed people out of his way faster now, needing to get to the street outside. He broke through the crowd to look out over the Park across the street. Thick black clouds of smoke poured from the trees, and as Harry watched, a fireball burst into life in the branches of another. There were people everywhere, running away from the scene, and Harry saw more than one person, wand out, shooting spells into the crowd indiscriminately.

He hesitated for just a moment and then spun in place, Apparating to the Museum. He needed help if he was going to try and stop this. The area surrounding the Museum was no less panicked. Harry looked out over the chaos and saw a number of blue-robed figures Apparate into the gardens, immediately beginning to fire off spells at those who held wands and were terrorising the Muggles they were herding together.

One of the attackers went down and then another and another. It must be MACUSA, Harry realised, as he watched them, and they were paying no heed to the Statute. They were only focused on stopping the rogue magic.

The words of the Horseman came back to him. _You're out of time, Catalyst._

Harry watched for a second longer and then pushed his cloak back off his shoulders and entered the Museum. He couldn't see anyone from the _Statera_ out in the swirling mess of people. He had to get the lot of them outside to help stop this.

He expected to find the central room in a state of chaos, but the activity inside was functioning exactly as it had every other time he had walked inside. There was a tension in the air; a heightened level of stress and determination, but no one was rushing outside to help those in the street.

'People are being murdered in the Park,' Harry said loudly. A number of heads turned to him, before turning back almost immediately to their work.

Mac walked towards him, her face stern.

'We are very well aware of that, Catalyst,' she said, her voice disapproving. Harry wondered for a moment if she was pissed about what he'd done to Rick the day before. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Harry looked at her, nonplussed. 'Aren't you going to do something about it?' he asked, gesturing around the room. 'People are dying. Shouldn't we be out there saving them?'

Mac's face hardened. 'We do not make direct change against the forces of the dark and the light. We watch and we shape Catalysts, such as yourself, to act as needed.'

'Are you fucking—' Harry began, then he cut himself off. 'Fine. I'll go out and stop them then.'

'You can't,' Mac said, putting her hand on his arm. 'Your role is not to stop the chaos that the dark instigates, but to stop the dark itself. If you're killed by someone the dark has infected, that's one less weapon we have to send against War, or Conquest.'

Harry clenched his hand into a fist, pulling his arm away from her grip. He looked around the room, at the heads that were bent and the people that were working, and then looked back up at the board at the other side. There were eight names left.

'Take Langdon off your board,' Harry said through gritted teeth. 'And assign David Masterson to me. There's something about him that I want to look into.'

Mac opened her mouth, as though to argue, but something she saw in Harry's face must have convinced her not to. She merely turned slightly towards Blake, who had come up to them as they spoke, and nodded.

'I'm going back out,' Harry said.

'Steer clear of the fighting, Catalyst,' Mac said to his back, as he strode away from her. 'Your real fight will be much more challenging than what is happening on the streets.'

Harry ignored her as he strode away.

Once he was outside, he pulled his cloak back on, trying to close his eyes and ears against the screams of fear and pain around himself. He couldn't. He felt, for a moment, like he was walking through the Battle of Hogwarts again, turning away from his friends, away from those he could have saved. He squared his shoulders, trying to bring back some of that same resigned certainty he'd had on that night. He had to think of the bigger picture—he had to chase down the bigger danger.

Harry looked around, and then up, whirling into an Apparition that took him to the roof of a skyscraper nearby. Once up there, he didn't look down at the violence below. He could still hear it faintly. The sound of explosions, sirens blaring, the crackle of flames. He didn't look for the Preservation symbol—the sign of Conquest—but he knew it would be out there.

Instead he concentrated, thinking of the tracing spell he'd put on Malfoy's wand the night before. Malfoy was still in the same place, in his suite at The Plaza. Harry felt another pang of guilt as he sat down to wait, focusing on the spell so that he would know when Malfoy moved. He tried to push the feeling to one side. Mac was right. He couldn't help anyone if he got caught up in the struggles below. 

He remembered his thoughts from the night before. There was something about Malfoy that called to him—something that told Harry he needed to watch him, that something was wrong with him. He closed his eyes as he concentrated on the spell and hoped that he wasn't fucking everything up by following his gut.

The spell jerked, indicating Malfoy had Apparated elsewhere. Harry concentrated on the new destination as he stood. He needed to act right now. If Malfoy had moved through wards, they would likely only stay open for a few seconds after his entry.

Harry pulled the cloak around himself and cast a _Muffliato_ which should dampen the sound of his arrival. Then he took a deep breath, pulled out his wand, and hoped like hell he wasn't about to jump into a trap.

He landed with a stunning spell on his lips but as he glanced around the room, he saw that it wasn't needed. His _Muffliato_ had held and he'd come inside the wards in time. There were three people in the room and none of them had turned to confront his arrival. Harry looked around quickly, trying to understand where he was. It looked like a living room. It was large, but decorated sparsely. There was a couch and a television and no windows in the space.

His attention flicked to the three figures as Malfoy spoke.

'Where's the boy?' he asked.

One of the two men jerked his head at a door off to one side.

'Sleeping still. He's been sulking since your last visit.'

Malfoy just nodded, moving towards the door and pushing it open. He stood for a moment in the doorway, looking inside. Harry could only see the side of his face, and something twisted across it, almost faster than he could catch. It looked like fear, followed by longing. Then the cold, emotionless mask Harry had seen the night before came down again.

Harry caught his breath, threads pulling closer together in his mind, his thoughts on the roof swirling back into life. Malfoy had always had close control of his expressions, but these last few days, it almost seemed like there was something inside him, struggling to get out, smothered every time it tried to surface. He felt a sense of creeping dread begin to move through him. Movement interrupted Harry's thoughts and he forced himself to focus.

Malfoy closed the door and turned back to the other two men.

'It won't be long now,' he said. 'Another week at most.'

'And then?' one of the men asked.

Malfoy shrugged. 'Do what you want with him. I won't need him anymore after that.'

For a second something in his eyes seemed to twist, burning brightly, and then it was gone again.

The men both nodded and Malfoy Apparated away.

Harry considered for a second trying to follow him again, but the whole situation was making a sick sort of sense. He turned back to the door, his heart beating loudly, as he hoped he was wrong.

He waited until the men had sat down in front of the telly again, facing away from him, and then he moved silently, cracking the door open and slipping into the room, pulling it closed behind him. It was dark inside the room, windowless again, and he whispered a silencing spell before casting a gentle _Lumos_.

There was a mattress on the floor in one corner, and on it, bundled up in blankets, was a tiny figure, tangled blond hair peeking out.

Harry knew, immediately, who it was. His sick realisation solidified. Malfoy had spoken about discarding the child, like he was a piece of rubbish that had served its purpose.

'Scorpius,' he whispered, kneeling beside the boy's bed to shake him lightly. 'Scorpius, wake up.'

The boy stirred and twisted, his face emerging from the blankets, eyes blinking sleepily. He was thin and his face looked grimy, tear-stained.

'Papa?' he muttered, spotting Harry's light and looking around.

Harry bit his lip then said. 'Don't be scared. I'm a friend, okay. I won't hurt you.' Then he pulled his cloak off his head, pushing it back over his shoulders.

Scorpius shrank away from him, fear entering his eyes, despite Harry's words. Harry felt anger flare to life at the thought of what this child might have been through in the last year. How could Malfoy _do_ this? Harry would never have let something like this happen to James. Malfoy had seemed fine with it... then Harry remembered the look of fear and longing which had flashed across his face. This whole situation was wrong.

'My name's Harry,' he said softly. He forced himself to sit still, despite his quickly growing fears. 'I'm a friend and I've come to help you. Do you want to be here?'

Scorpius shook his head, eyes wide.

'I'm going to go outside and put those men to sleep and then take you somewhere better. Does that sound alright?' Harry pushed away his desire to just grab the child and Apparate out. He had clearly been treated badly. Harry couldn't bring himself to traumatise the boy further.

Scorpius started to nod, but then stopped, the fear coming strongly into his eyes again.

'You can't take me away. Papa won't know where to find me. I have to stay here so Papa can find me.'

Scorpius reached into his blankets and pulled a bear out, holding it to his chest as he spoke, as though drawing comfort from it. Harry's hand dropped down, almost unconsciously, to the Mokeskin pouch at his hip and the bear he had inside. James' bear. His son should have had the chance to grow up. What was being done to this child was an abomination.

'Your Papa is doing a bad thing by putting you here,' Harry said gently, wondering how the hell he was going to explain this to the child. He didn't want to just grab him and take him.

But Scorpius shook his head vehemently.

'Papa loves me. Not Papa is the one who does the bad things!'

Harry paused, the cold sense of dread that had been creeping through him, engulfing him completely.

'Who is Not Papa?' he asked gently, forcing his voice not to shake. _Not Draco,_ he thought desperately. _Please don't let the Horseman be trapped inside Draco_

Scorpius frowned. 'Not Papa comes all the time. He hurt me and Papa cried for it.' Scorpius cuddled his bear close to his chest.

'Does Papa come too?' Harry asked, mind racing as all of the pieces fell into place.

'Sometimes,' Scorpius said, his voice small as he spoke into his bear. 'Sometimes Papa watches me in the dark. He tells me he's sorry and he cries.'

 _War is inside Draco Malfoy_. 

Harry felt like he wanted to vomit, as the truth of it spread through him. He realised a part of him had suspected it—had seen all the little ways in which Draco was different from the man Harry had known—but he hadn't wanted to join the dots together, to face the idea that Draco had been possessed. 

He couldn't turn away from it now. More than any of the other things Harry had observed in the last two days, Scorpius' words made it true. The person Harry had known could never leave his child locked in a filthy room, could never hurt him. Something was inside Malfoy's body, forcing him to act this way.

Harry remembered the words "Malfoy" had spoken:

_'It won't be long now,' he said. 'Another week at most.'_

_'And then?' one of the men asked._

_Malfoy shrugged. 'Do what you want with him. I won't need him anymore after that.'_

More pieces clicked into place. War had possessed Malfoy and taken Scorpius hostage to ensure his compliance. Very soon, War planned to discard the two of them. Harry remembered the spirit of Conquest erupting from the woman he'd killed. He imagined Draco like that, dead from an _Avada_ and he shuddered away from the thought. No matter what was between them—what Malfoy had done to him in the past—there was no way Harry could let him die.

He wouldn't let it happen.

'Scorpius,' Harry said, trying not to let his urgency bleed into his voice. 'I'm friends with your Papa. I'm going to take you away from here and then I'm going to make Not Papa leave. Does that sound good?' He watched for Scorpius' small, tentative nod.

'When your Papa is back to how he should be, I'll bring him to you, okay?'

'You can fix Papa?' Scorpius asked, his voice full of a painful hope.

'I can,' Harry said, praying he was right.

~

It took him a few hours to get Scorpius out and settled with the _Statera_. He'd known the moment he stunned the two guards and tore the wards apart so that he could Apparate back through them, that War would know what had happened. He could feel the trace he'd placed on Malfoy jerking every fifteen minutes or so, as he jumped from one location to the next, searching for the child.

Harry left instructions with Mac about where Scorpius needed to be sent, then he sat, eyes closed as she Obliviated him, taking the directions from his memory. If he was going up against War, he couldn't be the reason that it found Scorpius again. He had no idea what sort of powers the thing inside Malfoy had. If it could draw on all of Malfoy's magic, there was a good chance it could use _Legilimency_ on him. 

That had been a bad habit of Malfoy's, in their early days together, when he wanted to circumvent one of their frequent fights by just finding out what Harry was angry about. It had only taken a few unauthorised visits into Harry's mind before he'd found Voldemort there, and he'd stopped looking after that.

'You are certain you've found the host?' Mac asked, a trace of concern on her face.

Harry shook off his memories and nodded. 'I know which body it is, and I have a trace on where it will be next. It's angry. I'll have no trouble getting it to face me.'

'You must place the Seal,' Mac said, touching the tattoo on the centre of her chest, as though to remind him. 'You can't kill the host until you've placed the Seal.'

Harry nodded grimly. He had no intention of telling her he wasn't even going to attempt to kill the host, this time.

'I want to be tattooed,' he said instead, nodding to the symbol on her chest. 'I want the extra protection before I go back out.'

Mac hesitated for a moment and then nodded. 'Catalysts don't, normally,' she said. 'But it may assist, especially if the force knows you are coming for it.'

She gestured him towards the door off to one side which led to the Healer's quarters.

'You will take the Seal of Scattering?' she asked, 'To protect against War?'

Harry shook his head in determination. 'I want them all.'

~

Harry found Malfoy speaking with a group of five other men in a boardroom. He stared at him, looking for signs that Malfoy was possessed by some demon force. He looked completely normal, completely human, dressed in another of his smart suits, leaning forward with his hands on the table as he spoke to the other men in an authoritative tone. For a moment, Harry felt a tendril of doubt, but then he remembered the look on Malfoy's face as he'd glanced into Scorpius' room. No one who felt that way about his child could treat him so badly without something controlling his movements.

War was inside him. Harry reminded himself of that. Malfoy looked normal, but that didn't mean anything. He brought the image of the Seal to his mind as he prepared to cast, touching the newly tattooed design running down the centre of his chest, from his collarbone to his navel. The Seal of Scattering was second from the top and Harry felt it warm under his fingertips as he called on it.

Harry moved closer, the words coming to him as he concentrated. 

'We need to bring the meeting of Congress forward,' the thing inside Malfoy said, urgency in its voice. 'It needs to be today.'

'Impossible,' one of the men in the circle said.

'Tomorrow then,' Malfoy snarled. 'It needs to happen.'

Harry gathered his power, breathing deeply. He traced the lines of the image of the Seal of Scattering in his mind. Crossed swords inside a circle, the blades touching the top corners then spiking backwards, across to the other side, then up again to the apex of the circle. It was an image of violence and Harry let it into his mind until it was all he could see.

He began to trace the lines of the spell with his wand, whispering them under his breath.  
_'Paeonium, Casicum, Agrostemma, Consolida.'_

He breathed out and released the spell, sending the Seal forth, his eyes on Malfoy.

Nothing happened.

Harry stood, shocked, mind racing as he tried to figure out what had gone wrong. He'd cast everything perfectly. Exactly as he'd been shown. He was doing nothing differently now. Nothing... except he was wearing his Invisibility Cloak. Was the cloak interfering with the magic's ability to pass beyond him? It was never normally a problem.

Harry concentrated and cast the Seal again, making the forms and saying the words. Nothing happened. 

The six men were standing now, shaking hands as they came to some sort of agreement. Harry cursed, feeling panic rising in him. He was going to lose his chance. The five of them filed out, leaving Malfoy the only one in the room. Harry watched him, trying to figure out what he should do next.

He felt shock jolt through him when Malfoy turned back to the empty room, eyes casting about it. As he watched, Malfoys posture and expression seemed to change, as though he were shedding a skin. Suddenly Malfoy's eyes were too bright, his smile too wide. He slowly cocked his head to one side in a movement that made Harry think of a raptor hunting. There was nothing human about it. Abruptly, Harry knew he was looking into the face of War.

'Are you going to face me, Catalyst?' it said, a strange rasp to its voice that didn't sound like it came from a human throat.

Harry shivered and fought the urge to step back. He stared at the creature trapped inside Malfoy's body, unsure how to respond. Did War know he was in the room, or was he just taking the hunch that whoever had taken Scorpius would be following him? Was he just trying to draw Harry out?

'Draco desperately wants to know what you've done with his child,' War continued, its mouth twisting into a cruelly pleased expression. Harry could see the shadow of pointed teeth overlaying Malfoy's own for just a moment. He blinked and the illusion faded. 'He's been battering away inside me since the moment we realised the brat was gone.'

Its unblinking eyes tracked across the room as it spoke, as though looking for some sign of him. As he watched, it sniffed the air, stepping forward and wetting its lips.

Harry could imagine exactly what Malfoy was feeling—the terror and the uncertainty at the thought of something happening to his child. He felt the pain of it down to his bones and he pushed his cloak back before he could think to stop himself.

'Scorpius is safe,' he said, and Malfoy's eyes snapped to him. Malfoy's hand dropped to his wand and then paused, face contorting as though struggling, internally.

After a second his eyes cleared and Draco was looking at him. The otherworldly air faded and Harry could feel inside himself that this was Draco. His eyes were exhausted and full of suffering and his voice, when he spoke, was raw and desperate, that uncanny edge absent from it.

'Get out, Harry. Now!'

Harry started to respond but Draco's face twisted again, before he could speak. The impassive mask descended, broken only by a sharp-edged smile.

'Harry Potter,' War said, voice knowing. 'He cares for you as well.' 

War took a step closer, Malfoy's body moving strangely, as though he were a puppet on a string. Harry raised his wand, preparing to cast again. It would work this time, he knew it would.

'He fights so hard, for those he cares for,' War continued, taking another disjointed step. Harry started to trace the sigil in the air. 'It's been an age since I had a host fight this hard.' Its eyes lit up with satisfaction. It blinked, and they were slitted like a cat's. It blinked again and they returned to Malfoy's familiar grey. 'You would not believe the _power_ it gives me to live inside a host who is so opposed to everything I want to achieve, yet who submits to me to save others.'

' _Paeonium_ ,' Harry said, tracing the next line in the air. He blocked out the words he was hearing, focusing only on getting this abomination out of Draco.

War's eyes flicked down to his wand and it bared its teeth in anger. Harry caught a flash of the sharp-edged fangs again before they disappeared.

'Draco is the reason your son is dead. Did you know that, Harry Potter?'

Harry's fluid movement jerked to a halt, the second word in the invocation dying on his lips. His eyes snapped to the face of the creature in front of him.

War smiled. A cruel, self-satisfied smile.

'You were not at home the night your child was taken from you so brutally. You were called to do a task, weren't you?'

Harry felt frozen to the spot, as though ice were sliding down his spine.

'There was a cursed artefact that needed looking at urgently. People's lives were at risk.' War's voice was mocking now, that inhuman rasp filled with a gloating satisfaction.

Harry remembered the note he had received by owl, penned in a hand that looked familiar, but which he couldn't quite place. It had been unsigned, something he had thought was odd at the time, but not a deal breaker. People often didn't like to get themselves caught up in the business of curses. Harry had found the note again much later, tucked among bundles of his papers. He remembered looking over it, wondering if it had anything to do with James' death—if he'd been lured from the house on purpose that night. His investigations had gone nowhere and he'd given up on it, in the end.

'You went to a shop,' War continued, and Harry could do nothing but listen, desperate to know, at last what had happened. 'It was an antiques shop, a new one. Draco's shop, it turns out, though he operates it under a different name,' War said, watching Harry's face, clearly enjoying his reactions.

Harry felt the revelation cut through him. Malfoy had sent him a note. Malfoy had lured him out of his house so his son could be killed. He felt the thought like it was a sword, speared through his body, cracking his chest open. His relief, at finally knowing the answers, after all this time, finally knowing _why_ mixed with the anguish of what he was hearing. Malfoy had done this.

'He hid from you,' War went on, 'and watched you as you pulled the curse apart. Later he touched himself. While you went home to find your child in a pool of blood, Draco was wanking himself to the scent of you, lingering in his shop.'

Harry took a step back, shaking his head. _No. Malfoy—Draco—couldn't have_. He felt his hands begin to shake and he clenched them into fists to try and stop them. His thoughts were racing and he couldn't make them quiet. _James!_

'You knew?' he said, his voice a low rasp. He was talking to Malfoy now, not the thing inside him, but it was War who answered again.

'He knew that he wanted to see you, and that sending you a job in the middle of the night would draw you to him. He knew it was dangerous, but he let his need override his care for you.' War gave him a mocking smirk, the same one Harry had seen on Malfoy's face a thousand times, before he delivered a hex or a punch or a slur. It made the old anger flare to life inside Harry. 

'Your son is dead, Harry Potter, because Draco didn't give enough of a damn to stop what we did to him.'

Harry could feel the certainty and truth in those words. Malfoy's action had helped to cause James' death. The thought burned him like acid. It mixed with every other thing Malfoy had ever done to hurt him. The list was so, so long. But this one could not be forgiven. Harry raised his wand, his anger flaring higher.

He grit his teeth and began the form of the Seal again.

War's face twisted at that, and it reached behind itself, as though reaching for the hilt of a sword that wasn't there.

'No curse, Potter?' it asked, the sneer deepening as it dropped its hand. Harry could almost believe it was Malfoy speaking to him. Except the eyes. Malfoy's eyes had always held a spark of _something_ in them, when he looked at Harry. It was only now, when it was gone, that he realised it. 

'Don't you want to kill him?' War taunted. 'Take his life from him the way he took your son's from you?'

Harry continued the form of the Seal, his arm moving with more purpose. He wouldn't be baited into releasing another Horseman into the world, no matter how his anguish over James' death, and Malfoy's role in that, screamed at him. The words of the Seal fell from his lips.

_'Paeonium, Casicum—'_

War shook its head, and it almost seemed disappointed in him.

'I don't think so, Catalyst. I still have a little more to do.'

It grasped Malfoy's wand and turned, graceful now. Harry caught a glimpse of grey eyes that held a world of sorrow before it Disapparated with a crack that echoed through the silence of the room.

~

Harry went back to the Museum. He didn't know where else to go. The creature inside Malfoy had severed the trace Harry had placed on his wand. It must have found the tracker after he followed it to Scorpius, but left it in place to lure Harry in. Now that it knew he wasn't going to be taunted into releasing it from Malfoy's body, it had obviously decided to keep away from him. Harry had no idea where it could have gone. 

He looked around dispiritedly as he landed. The streets had calmed somewhat, but there were signs of the violence everywhere. Bloodstains and curse residue on the walls and pavements, swathes of the park still smoking, rubbish and debris littered everywhere. Harry didn't spare it a glance. He knew it was only going to get worse.

Mac and Blake both approached him as he entered, but Harry merely shook his head. He'd fucked it up. He knew it. He didn't need to unpack for them how. The only thing he stopped to ask was whether Scorpius had got away safely. At Mac's nod, he went to the kitchens, found himself a bottle of vodka and retreated to his room.

He drained it in under an hour and passed out in a fitful sleep. When he awoke and stumbled out into the main command room, it was to see everyone gathered around the large screen, watching a televised broadcast. Every face he looked at was grim and Harry turned to watch as well, noticing Rick in the crowd and feeling a stab of dislike, and then disgust at himself. Was he any better? He couldn't even do what he had to when he was properly trained for it.

'We have identified the enemy that is attacking us on American soil,' came a strong, commanding voice from the screen. Harry focused on it to see that it was the Muggle President, a tall, dark-haired man speaking in front of a backdrop of flags.

'This enemy is an old one. One that has hidden behind stories and lies, embedded into the very heart of our society throughout time.' 

Harry caught his breath as he realised what was happening. This was it, the aftermath of the vote War had been referring to.

'Those who are killing our people in the streets, pulling innocents from their beds, slaughtering our children—those who use weapons we have never seen, and cannot combat—they are not like us.'

The President paused and his face was grim.

'Magic is real. Those who attack us have magic. They have powers beyond anything we have seen before and they seek to use those powers to dominate us. To enslave us. To rule over us. _We will not allow it!_ '

The camera panned back, showing an array of formally dressed people standing to either side of the President. Harry's eyes flicked over them as he listened. His gaze caught on General Andrews and Harry felt his fear spike higher at the resolution on the man's face. What had he advised in his testimony?

'Congress has just passed an emergency measure,' the President continued. 'We are immediately bringing the power of the entire US armed forces to bear in this global conflict. Every person actively serving will be redeployed immediately, alongside our global allies, to combat this new enemy. Effective immediately, the National Guard will be activated to coordinate local networks to identify magic users.'

The President stared out of the screen and the look on his face was hard and certain. 'We call on you, the American citizens, to protect yourselves and those around you. If you are armed, use that power to defend the weak.'

Harry felt sick, frozen as he stared at the screen. No one around him moved. What he was hearing sounded surreal, like some waking nightmare. He realised this was what War had been pushing Andrews to do—give testimony that led to global persecution. Andrews had advised the President to call on every single American citizen to rise up in the eradication of magic.

'We fight together, now, the world over, for the survival of humanity,' the President continued, his voice commanding. 'Magic, and those who wield it, will be exterminated.'

The camera pulled back to show the group of advisors again as they applauded the words. This was it, Harry knew. The Statute of Secrecy was broken, shattered beyond repair. This was the start of World War Three, and they would all be lucky to survive it. He felt the horror of it rising in him like a wave, ready to pull him down into the depths and drown him.

Then his eye caught on blond hair, and a satisfied smile, as a figure moved out from behind the man in front of him.

Harry felt rage boil to life inside of him, immediately replacing the despair, and he ripped his wand from its holster. Secrecy be damned. There _was_ no Statute anymore. He Apparated, forcing himself through the _Statera_ wards, leaving them tattered in his wake.

He landed with a crack, people scattering and screaming as they scrambled out of his way, but he only had eyes for one person. He shouted ' _Immobulus!_ ', stepping closer to catch Malfoy's form as he fell, then he whirled back into Apparition, Malfoy's arm tight in his grasp.

He landed on a rooftop and let Malfoy fall to the ground, standing over him with his wand still pointed at him.

War looked at him out of Malfoy's eyes as it twisted his mouth slowly into a grin.

'You're... too... late... Catalyst,' it said, forcing every word through Harry's spell with gloating satisfaction.

Harry ignored it. He raised his wand and closed his eyes. He'd realised, the night before, why the Seal hadn't worked. Somewhere, in the midst of his alcohol-soaked memories, he'd made the connection.

 _You have to mean it_.

All the great spells required intent. Harry knew the way the _Statera_ had taught him the forms hadn't felt quite right, but it hadn't been until the night before that he'd realised why. They taught them with an intent to kill.

Harry was so, so sick of the killing.

He focused on what he wanted. The antithesis of War.

Love. Compassion. Understanding. Compromise.

He thought of these things. Filled his mind with them. The wonder in his heart as he looked into his son's face. The empathy he'd felt for Draco, cut off from his own child. The family he knew waited for him, no matter how many times he'd turned them away. He remembered his parents' glowing forms. Sirius, and the life they could have had together.

He reached for more and more memories, trying to fill himself with them. They were tinged with sadness, every one of them, but he held them inside himself and hoped they would be enough.

He opened his eyes and drew the circle in the air with his wand, seeing it burst into life, a vibrant, shimmering gold.

' _Paeonium._ ' The word fell from his lips like the toll of a bell. He watched as the thing inside Malfoy flinched at the sound.

He drew the first of the crossed swords, up to the right, down to the left and back up to the apex. Golden light followed in its wake. Harry thought of holding James close to himself, singing to him in the night, Hermione's arm around his shoulders and the scent of her hair against his cheek, Ron's grin and the steady understanding in his eyes as he knocked against Harry while they walked.

' _Casicum_.'

He drew the second of the crossed swords, mirroring the first in every way. He could feel something shifting in the air, drawing tight. Malfoy's eyes went wide, darting from side to side. Harry could see him begin to struggle, twitching against the hold of the spell. His face, for a moment, was that of Draco, eyes desperate and pleading, and then he was gone, submerged by the creature inside of him.

 _He's fighting back_ , Harry realised, determination rising in him. However Malfoy had been caught up with War, whatever he had done in its service, Harry had to believe he hadn't wanted to. He had to, or he wouldn't be able to do this. No matter how much Draco had hurt him, Harry couldn't—wouldn't—be responsible for his death. _James_ , a voice inside him cried. Harry felt his heart break, but he held the threads of the spell together.

Harry gathered more memories to himself, the ones he'd locked away, so many years ago. He put aside his hurt and his anguish and he forced himself to only remember the good. He looked into Draco's face and thought about holding him, dancing with him, flying against him. _Loving him_.

' _Agrostemma_.' 

The power flooded from Harry and into the symbol hanging in the air in front of him, so that it shone like the sun. 

Without any thought, Harry knew what he had to do. It was like he'd always known. He raised both hands and pushed his wand forward. The symbol flew through the air, hitting Draco in the chest and expanding, so that it wrapped around him. It flared bright and vibrant for a moment, and then sunk into him. His body jerked and he closed his eyes.

Harry looked at him, strengthening his resolve, and hoped like hell he'd got this right. He opened his mouth and spoke the final word. The one that would kill the spirit inside of him.

He prayed it would leave Draco alive as it did so.

' _Consolida._ '

Draco's body convulsed, despite the spell holding him still. His face contorted with pain and his mouth opened in a silent, agonised scream.

Harry took a step back, uncertain, not knowing what should happen now. What was happening didn't look the same as when Conquest had burst forth. This looked like something was fighting a vicious battle inside Draco's body.

Draco twisted again, his back arching fiercely and then he retched, a harsh guttural sound. 

Harry severed his _Immobulus_ , worried the force of making Draco's body move against the restraint would damage him. As soon as he did, Draco slumped forward onto his hands and knees. He hung his head and then retched again, his body contorting from the force of it.

Harry felt fear curling through him as he watched Draco's pain. Had he done it wrong? Was he killing Draco after all?

He stepped closer, wand still gripped in his hand, and then swore as blood spewed from Draco's mouth, splashing onto the concrete at his feet.

It was thick and clotted, and Harry felt his own bile rise at the sight of it. He felt a flash of terror at the thought that this was not supposed to be happening.

Draco let out a noise that sounded like a sob and vomited again, more blood pouring from his mouth, a pool of dark red staining the ground.

Harry watched as the substance oozed and twitched, moving almost like tar. He realised what it was a second later. This was the thing that had lived inside Draco. This was what it looked like to Seal and destroy a Horseman while leaving the host alive. Draco threw more and more of it up, one arm around his stomach as he sobbed.

As soon as Draco sat back, spitting and wiping a hand over his blood-stained mouth, Harry directed an _Incendio_ at the sluggishly moving mass, holding it steady until it began to shrivel and curl in on itself. He felt relief flow through him at the sight of the diseased remnants of the Horseman's force burning away into nothing.

'Harry,' Draco said, voice raw, as though he'd been screaming for hours.

He spat again and spoke louder, reaching out, as though heedless of the flames.

'Harry!'

Harry looked up, lowering his wand at the anguish that was written across every line of Draco's body. 

Draco's eyes were pleading as he spoke.

'Please. Where's my son?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I know there is a _lot_ inside that chapter.
> 
> I'd love to know what you're thinking now, or what stood out to you, or just anything really.
> 
> It will take me a few months to pull the next chunk together, so any comments in the meantime will sustain me <3
> 
> Also, please check out this amazing art by hillyminnie of Harry looking at James' photo. The sadness on his face kills me.  
> [Link here.](https://quicksilvermaid.tumblr.com/post/622151463756578816/at-the-end-of-all-things-the-four-horsemen-of-the)  
>    
> Q


End file.
